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ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 



JMacmtllan's Pocfeet American anlr lEngltsJ) Classics 



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Secondary Schools, with Critical Introductions, Notes, etc. 



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Addison's Sir Roger de Coverley. 

Andersen's Fairy Tales. 

Arabian Nights' Entertainments. 

Arnold's Sohrab and Rustum. 

Austen's Pride and Prejudice. 

Bacon's Essays. 

Bible (Memorable Passages from). 

Blackmore's Lorna Doone. 

Browning's Shorter Poems. 

Browning, Mrs., Poems (Selected). 

Bryant's Thanatopsis, etc. 

Bulwer's Last Days of Pompeii. 

Bunyan's The Pilgrim's Progress. 

Burke's Speech on Conciliation. 

Burns' Poems (Selections from). 

Byron's Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. 

Byron's Shorter Poems. 

Carlyle's Essay on Burns. 

Carlyle's Heroes and Hero Worship. 

Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonder- 
land (Illustrated). 

Chaucer's Prologue and Knight's Tale. 

Church's The Story of the Iliad. 

Church's The Story of the Odyssey. 

Coleridge's The Ancient Mariner. 

Cooper's The Deerslayer. 

Cooper's The Last of the Mohicans. 

Cooper's The Spy. 

Dana's Two Years Before the Mast. 

Defoe's Robinson Crusoe. 

De Quincey's Confessions of an English 
Opium- Eater. 

De Quincey's Joan of Arc, and The Eng- 
lish Mail-Coach. 



Dickens' A Christmas Carol, and The 
Cricket on the Hearth. 

Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities. 

Dryden's Palamon and Arcite. 

Early American Orations, 1760-1824. 

Edwards' (Jonathan) Sermons. 

Eliot's Silas Marner. 

Emerson's Essays. 

Emerson's Early Poems. 

Emerson's Representative Men. 

English Narrative Poems. 

Epoch-making Papers in U. S. History. 

Franklin's Autobiography. 

Gaskell's Cranford. 

Goldsmith's The Deserted Village, She 
Stoops to Conquer, and The Good- 
natured Man. 

Goldsmith's The Vicar of Wakefield. 

Gray's Elegy, etc, and Cowper's John 
Gilpin, etc. 

Grimm's Fairy Tales. 

Hawthorne's Grandfather's Chair. 

Hawthorne's Mosses from an Old Manse. 

Hawthorne's Tanglewood Tales. 

Hawthorne's The House of the Seven 
Gables. 

Hawthorne's Twice-told Tales (SelectioTiS 
from). 

Hawthorne's Wonder-Book. 

Holmes' Poems. 

Homer's Iliad (Translated). 

Homer's Odyssey (Translated). 

Hughes' Tom Brown's School Days. 

Irving's Life of Goldsmith. 

Trying 's Knickerbocker. 



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Irving's The Alhambra. 
Irving's Sketch Book. 
Irving's Tales of a Traveller. 
Keary's Heroes of Asgard. 
Kingsley's The Heroes. 
Lamb's The Essays of Elia. 
Lincoln's Inaugurals and Speeches. 
Longfellow's Evangeline. 
Longfellow's Hiawatha. 
Longfellow's Miles Standish, 
Longfellow's Tales of a Wayside Inn. 
Lowell's The Vision of Sir Launfal. 
Macaulay's Essay on Addison. 
Macaulay's Essay on Hastings. 
Macaulay's Essay on Lord Clive. 
Macaulay's Essay on Milton. 
Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome. 
Macaulay's Life of Samuel Johnson. 
Milton's Comus and Other Poems. 
Malory's Le Morte Darthur. 
Milton's Paradise Lost, Books I. and II. 
Old English Ballads. 
Out of the Northland. 
Palgrave's Golden Treasury. 
Plutarch's Lives (Caesar Brutus, and 

Mark Antony). 
Poe's Poems. 

Poe's Prose Tales (Selections from). 
Pope's Homer's Iliad. 
Pope's The Rape of the Lock. 
Ruskin's Sesame and Lilies. 
Scott's Ivanhoe. 
Scott's Kenilworth. 
Scott's Lady of the Lake. 
Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel. 
Scott's Marmion. 



Scott's Quentin Durward. 
Scott's The Talisman. 
Shakespeare's As You Like It. 
Shakespeare's Hamlet. 
Shakespeare's Henry V. 
Shakespeare's Julius Csesar. 
Shakespeare's King Lear. 
Shakespeare's Macbeth. 
Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's 

Dream. 
Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice. 
Shakespeare's Richard II. 
Shakespeare's The Tempest. 
Shakespeare's Twelfth Night. 
Shelley and Keats : Poems. 
Sheridan's The Rivals and The School 

for Scandal. 
Southern Poets : Selections. 
Spenser's Faerie Queene, Book I. 
Stevenson's Kidnapped. 
Stevenson's The Master of Ballantrae. 
Stevenson's Travels with a Donkey, and 

An Inland Voyage. 
Stevenson's Treasure Island. 
Swift's Gulliver's Travels. 
Tennyson's Idylls of the King. 
Tennyson's The Princess. 
Tennyson's Shorter Poems. 
Thackeray's English Humourists. 
Thackeray's Henry Esmond. 
Washington's Farewell Address, and 

Webster's First Bunker Hill Oration. 
Whittier's Snow-Bound and Other Early 

Poems. 
Woolman's Journal. 
Wordsworth's Shorter Poems. 



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ENGLISH iMRRATIVE POEMS 



SELECTED AND EDITED 

BY 

CLAUDE M. FUESS 

AND 

HENRY N. SANBORN 

INSTRUCTOES IN ENGLISH IN PHILLIPS ACADEMY 
ANDOVEE, MASSACHUSETTS 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
1909 

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Copyright, 1909, 
By the MACMILLAN COMPANY. 



Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1909. 



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SEP.. 16; 1909 



J. S. CUwSbing Co. — Berwick & Smith Co. 
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 



CONTENTS 



PAOB 

Introduction ix 

COWPER. 

The Diverting History of John Gilpin .... 1 

Burns. 

Tarn o' Shanter 11 

Scott. 

Lochinvar 19 

Wordsworth. 

Michael 21 

Lucy Gray 36 

Campbell. 

Hohenlinden . . . . . ' . • . .39 
Battle of the Baltic . . 40 

Wolfe. 

The Burial of Sir John Moore 43 

Byron. 

The Prisoner of Chillon 45 

Mazeppa . . .58 

The Destruction of Sennacherib 86 

Keats. 

The Eve of St. Agnes 88 

vii 



Vlll CONTENTS 

Tennyson. p^^.^ 

Dora .0 103 

(Enone 108 

Enoch Arden 117 

The Revenge . . . 146 

Browning. 

" How they brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix " 154 

Incident of the French Camp 156 

The Pied Piper of Hamelin 158 

Herv^Riel 168 

ROSSETTI. 

The White Ship 175 

Morris. 

Atalanta's Race 187 

Longfellow. 

The Wreck of the Hesperus 211 

Paul Revere' s Ride 214 

Whittier. 

Skipper Ireson's Ride 219 

Barclay of Ury 222 

Barbara Frietchie 226 



• » 



Holmes. 

Grandmother's Story of BunkOK mil Battle . . .230 

Notes 241 



INTRODUCTION 



Narrative poetry is distinguished from other types 
of verse in that it aims to relate a connected series of 
events and, therefore, deals primarily with actions, 
rather than with thoughts or emotions. This defini- 
tion, however, simple as it appears to be in theory, is 
often difficult to apply as a test because other matter 
is blended with the pure narrative. In any story where 
the situation is made prominent, description may be 
required to make clear the scene and explain move- 
ments to the reader; thus Enoch Arden begins with a 
word picture of a sea-coast town. Again it is often 
necessary to analyze the motives which actuate certain 
characters, and so it becomes necessary to introduce 
exposition of some sort into the plot'. The poems in 
this collection serve to enforce the lesson that the four 
standard rhetorical forms — narration, description, 
exposition, and argumentation — are constantly being 
combined and welded in a complicated way. In cases 
where these various literary elements are apparently 
in a tangle, a classification, if it be made at all, must 
be based on the design of the poem as a whole, and 
the emphasis and proportion given to the respective 
elements by the author. If the stress is laid on the re- 
counting of the events which make up a unified action, 
and if the other factors are made subordinate and sub- 

ix 



X INTRODUCTION 

sidiary to this end, then the poem in question belongs 
to the narrative group. 

The antiquity of the narrative as a form of literature 
is undisputed. Indeed it has been established with a 
reasonable degree of certainty that poetry in its very 
beginnings was narrative and in its primitive state 
must have been a sort of rude, rhythmical chant, origi- 
nated and participated in by the tribe as a whole, and 
telling of the exploits of gods or legendary heroes. 
In the course of time there arose the minstrel, who, act- 
ing first as chorus leader, became eventually the repre- 
sentative of the tribe and its own special singer. When 
we reach a somewhat more advanced stage of civiliza- 
tion, we find regularly appointed bards reciting their 
lays in the hall of the chieftain or urging on the war- 
riors to battle with rehearsals of past victories. Origi- 
nally these bards simply repeated the old oral traditions 
handed down as common property, but the opportunity 
for the display of individual genius soon induced them 
to try variations on the current themes and to compose 
versions of their own. With this advance of indi- 
vidualism, poetry became gradually more complex. 
Various elements, lyrical, descriptive, and dramatic, 
assumed some prominence and tended to develop 
separate forms. This differentiation, however, did 
not impair the vigor of the story-telling spirit, and a 
constant succession of narrative poems down to the 
present day evidences how productive and character- 
istic a feature of our literature this form has been. 

Obviously it is impracticable to undertake here even 
a brief summary of the history of English narrative 
poetry and of the influences to which it has been re- 
sponsive. Something may, nevertheless, be done to 



INTRODUCTION xi 

map out roughly a few divisions which may be of 
assistance in bringing this material into orderly shape for 
the student. Many efforts at systematic classification 
have been made, and a few fairly well-marked types 
have been defined. In spite of this fact, the task still 
presents insuperable obstacles over which there has been 
futile controversy. One t3^pe is likely to run into 
another in a way which is uncomfortabh^ baffling. 
Then there are numerous nondescript works whose 
proper place seems determinable by no law of poetics. 
The fact is that, here at least, narrow distinctions 
are bound to be unsatisfactory. The critic finds it 
imperative to avoid dogmatism lest he lay himself open 
to attack; his only refuge is in the general statement 
which may be suggestive even if it is not exact. 

Of the fixed types, two of the best known, the Ejpic 
and the Ballad, were among the earliest to be created. 
The Epic in its original form was a long poem of uniform 
metre, serious in tone and elevated in style, introduc- 
ing supernatural or heroic characters and usually 
dealing with some significant event in racial or na- 
tional history. In its first or primitive shape it was 
anonymous, a spontaneous outgrowth of popular feel- 
ing, though perhaps arranged and revised at a later date 
by some conscious artistic hand. Such a primitive Epic 
is the old English Beoivulf: it is thoroughly objective; 
in it no clew to definite authorship can be detected; 
in it personality is buried in the rush of incident and 
the clash of action. When, with the broadening of 
the scope of poetry, the individual writer displaced the 
tribe as the preserver of folk-lore, the new order of 
things evolved the so-called artificial Epic as repre- 
sented by Milton's Paradise Lost, Here the conven- 



xn IMTRODUCnOW 

tional Epic style and material is kept; the universe 
is the stage, and the figures upon it are imposing and 
grand; but behind the poem is a single personality 
whose mood colors and modifies the whole. The Epic 
is no longer entirely racial or national, but individual; 
and we have the introduction of such passages as ^lil- 
ton's reference to his own blindness in Book Three. 

Akin to the Epic is the Mock Epic, which. appropri- 
ates the Epic machinery and Epic style to use them in 
dealing with trivialities- In Popes The Rape of the 
Lock, the most artistic Mock Epic in English, the theft 
of a sin^e lock of hair becomes an act of national and 
supernatural interest and a game of cards is described 
as if it were a mighty battle. 

Almost paralld with and closely resembling the 
development of the Epic is that of the Ballad, Like 
the primitive Epic in anonymity and impersonality, 
the Ballad was much shorter, had rime and stanzas, 
and dealt, as a rule, with incidents of less impor- 
tance. Not so formal or pretentious as the Epic, 
it was easily memorized even by the peasant, and 
handed down from generation to generation by word 
of mouth. Favorite subjects were the legends of 
Robin Hood, the misfortunes of nobles, and the incidents 
of Border warfare, ilixed in many of them was a 
tendency toward superstition, a survival of the bdief 
in ghosts, magicians, and talking animals. Numerous 
examples gathered by antiquaries may be found in the 
edition of old English Ballads in this series; among the 
better known are The Wife of Usher's Well and Chevy 
Chase. Later poets naturally adapted the Ballad 
form to their own uses, and so we have the artificial 
Ballad, illustrated by Cowper'3 The Hidory of John [ 



INTRODUCTION Xlll 

Gilpin, Longfellow's The Wreck of the Hesperus^ and 
Swinburne's May Janet. In these poems many of 
the trite expressions so peculiar to the primitive Ballad 
are retained; but, like the artificial Epic, the w^ork is 
no longer communal, but individual, in origin and bears 
the stamp of one mind animated by an artistic purpose. 
In discussing the Epic and the Ballad one is on fairly 
safe ground, but between these types one finds a vast 
amount of poetry, evidently narrative, which suggests 
perplexing problems. Much of it may be made to come 
under what we term loosely the Metrical Romance, 
This title is often narrowed by scholars to apply strictly 
to a poetical genre, arising in the Middle Ages and 
brought into England by the Norman-French, which 
deals in a rambling way with the marvellous adven- 
tures of wandering knights or heroes. Its plot, in 
which love and combat are conspicuous features, is 
enveloped in a kind of glamour, an atmosphere of 
unreality. It drew its material from many diverse 
sources: from the legends of Troy and the stories of 
classical and Oriental antiquity; from the tales of the 
Frankish Emperor Charlemagne and his paladins; 
from the Celtic accounts of King Arthur and the Table 
Round. Since its characters, sometimes not without 
anachronism, embodied the chivalric ideals of courtesy 
and loyalty to ladies, hatred of paganism, and general 
conduct according to a prescribed but unwritten code, 
its appeal was made for the most part to the courtier 
and the aristocrat, — though it must be added that many 
of the robuster Charlemagne romances acquired cur- 
rency with the humbler classes and were sung in the 
cottage of the peasant. The fact that the greater 
number of these Metrical Romances were mere redac- 



XIV INTRODUCTION 

tions, taken from foreign models, makes them seem 
deficient in English interest. Still, several of the best 
were of native composition, an excellent example being 
the well-known Sir Gawayne and the Green Knight, 

But even in spite of a few slight advantages to be 
gained, it seems unwise to restrict the Metrical Romance 
too closely. What we are accustomed to call, rather 
vaguely, romance is a persistent quality in narrative 
poetry, and is not limited to the literature of any par- 
ticular age or rank of society. A cursory examination 
will disclose many e\^dences of the romantic spirit in 
both the Epic and the Ballad. And certainly Scott's 
The Lay of the Last Minstrel, Keats's The Eve of St. 
Agnes, Longfellow's Evangeline, and many other poems 
on similar themes must remain unclassified unless we 
designate them broadly as Metrical Romances. Of 
course, it is not essential that they should be pigeon- 
holed and put away with the right label affixed. How- 
ever, one or two observations on the subject-matter with 
which works of this nature deal may assist us in avoid- 
ing embarrassing confusion. Sometimes the Metrical 
Romance (using the term in its broader sense) deals 
with authenticated incidents of history. In such cases, 
the narrative, founded as it is on matters of fact, is 
compelled to preserve substantial accuracy with regard 
to the events which it uses for a structure. The fancy 
is thus partly curbed through the necessity of not 
departing radically from the truth. This restraint, 
logically enough, does not prevent the introduction of 
fictitious characters or episodes; but in the strict his- 
torical poem, as in the historical novel, it does require 
adherence to chronology and a just representation of 
the period in which the action takes place. Occasion- 



INTRODUCTION XV 

ally this form approaches a poetical paraphrase, as in 
Rossetti's The White Ship, The nineteenth century 
was singularly prolific in works of this sort; notable 
among such works are Scott's Marmion, Tennyson's 
The Revenge, and Longfellow's Paul Revere^ s Ride, 
If the basis of the poem is mythological, we have a further 
species of the Metrical Romance. The stories clus- 
tered around the gods and goddesses of unsophis- 
ticated peoples are perennially attractive and offer a 
fruitful field to the poet. In the setting there is fre- 
quent opportunity for elaborate description, and there 
is often, as in Tennyson's (Enone and William Morris's 
Atalanta^s Race, ornamentation used by the author 
that is more than ordinarily remarkable. For such 
poetry the Greek and Latin writers furnish a wealth 
of material for imitation. Nor have the myths of 
other races been neglected in recent years. Matthew 
Arnold's Balder Dead has its inspiration in the Norse 
Eddas and has its opening scene in Valhalla where 
Odin, father of the gods, presides over the immortals. 
William Morris's Sigurd the Volsing is an adaptation 
of the myths of the early Germans. 

It is not aside from the point to refer here to the 
few poems in which the subject-matter of the Metrical 
Romance is used, strangely enough, as a means of 
teaching moral ideas. Spenser's Faerie Queene presents 
such an anomaly. In it conventional chivalric heroes 
undergo surprising and impossible adventures, bat- 
tling and loving as in the legends of Charlemagne and 
Arthur. Indeed, in the Faerie Queene, Arthur himself 
appears as the protagonist. But these knights and 
ladies are, we learn, merely animated vices and virtues 
and are such, because, as Spenser takes pains to tell us. 



XVI INTRODUCTION 

the poem, though romantic in mood, is allegorical in in- 
tention, its aim being '' to fashion a gentleman or noble 
person in vertuous and gentle discipine/^ The author 
in using his characters as agents of moral instruction 
creates a type as much by itself as Pilgrim' s Progress 
is in prose. Modern examples less conspicuous for 
visible allegorical intention are Tennyson's Idylls of 
the King, in which Arthurian material is once more 
revived with something of an ethical purpose. 

There is still to be taken up a large body of poems, 
usually, though not always, shorter than the Metrical 
Romances, which deal with the situations of common 
life and with the humbler members of society. By 
some authorities the term Metrical Tale has been ap- 
plied to such compositions; though it is hardly exact 
or specific, since the word ^^tale'' is usually made 
synonymous with ^' story '' and therefore does not 
connote a limited subject-matter. We may accept it 
in a provisional w^ay as a convenient technical term 
for our purposes. The Metrical Tale, then, as con- 
trasted with the Metrical Romance, attempts a realistic 
portrayal of the natural sorrows, losses, or pains 
which belong to our everyday experience. The 
emotions of which it treats are fundamentally strong 
and keep the style and versification from becoming 
overelaborated. The Metrical Tale may be humorous 
as in Chaucer's The Miller's Tale, or may be pathetic 
and tragic as in Tennyson's Enoch Arden or Words- 
worth's Michael. In these poems it will be observed 
that the diction and phraseology are exceedingly 
simple. But here, too, candor requires the admission 
that the alleged difference between the Romance and 
the Tale is likely to bring on a charge of inconsistency. 



INTRODUCTION xvii 

Enoch Arden, just now mentioned, abounds in roman- 
tic episodes, though Enoch and PhiUp and Annie dwell 
in a little fishing village. Why, if Chaucer chose to 
call his masterpiece the Canterbury Tales, should any 
one take the liberty of questioning his nomenclature? 
The query is well founded; and yet the reader must 
recognize a wide gulf in tone and spirit between The 
KnighV s Tale and The Reeve' s Tale. Call it, if you 
will, the distinction between idealism and realism; 
at any rate it exists, and ought to be made plain even 
at the risk of confronting dilemmas of another sort. 

Having a kind of relationship to what we call ar- 
bitrarily the Metrical Tale is the Beast Fable in verse, 
in which animals and birds are endowed with reason 
and speech. The excuse for the Beast Fable is an 
ethical one, and the story, often humorou's, is merely a 
vehicle for instruction, — a fact evident enough from 
the so-called moral appended to most Beast Fables. 
The best Beast Fables in English are those of John 
Gay. 

It is beyond the scope of this introduction to make 
any but a passing reference to the forms of versifica- 
tion which have been used in narrative poetry. In 
general, the range of metres is wide and varied, though 
a few common lines and stanzas occur with much 
frequency. Blank Verse, a favorite Epic measure 
used by Milton in Paradise Lost, has also been effective 
in the Metrical Romance (Arnold's Sohrab and Rnstum) 
and the Metrical Tale (Wordsworth's Michael), It is 
peculiarly fitting to longer poems of a serious character. 
The Heroic Couplet, made up of two rimed iambic 
pentameters, was invented by Chaucer and tried in 
many of the Canterbury Tales. It has since become 



XVlll INTRODUCTION 

very common, being the measure of such widely differ- 
ent poems as Marlowe's Hero and Leander, Pope's 
The Rape of the Lock, and Keats's La?nia. Octosyllabic 
verse is frequently found, — sometimes in rimed coup- 
lets as in Scott's Marrnion, less often unrimed as in 
Longfellow's Hiawatha. In the couplet form it is 
especially suited to war poetry where a rapid move- 
ment is desirable. The standard four-lined ballad 
stanza with rimed alternate lines has continued in 
popularity with the artificial ballad writers and has 
been used in such poems as Wordsworth's Lucy Gray 
and Longfellow's The Wreck of the Hesperus. Most 
complicated of all the narrative stanzaic forms is the 
Spenserian stanza, devised by Spenser for his Faerie 
Queene and imitated by Keats in The Eve of St. 
Agnes. It has a stateliness which makes it well adapted 
to dignified themes. In some few examples there is a 
metre wholly irregular and following the movement of 
the story, as in Tennyson's The Revenge and Brown- 
ing's Herve Riel. 

The discussion of narrative methods may be left to 
the will and discretion of the teacher. A study of the 
separate poems here presented will show that while 
the four almost indispensable elements of narration — 
plot, setting, characters, and motive — may usually 
be found, their use and emphasis vary greatly accord- 
ing to the theories and personalities of the authors. 
The employment of such arts of construction as sus- 
pense and climax may be discovered by the individual 
student, who should also test each poem for its unity, 
coherence, and proportion. In a collection such as this 
there is ample room for instructive criticism and com- 
parison. But narrative poems may well be read for 



INTRODUCTION xix 

the interest they excite. If a narrative poem fails in 
this respect, it is all but condemned from the start. 
It is hoped that these examples may show the student 
that poetry is not always dull and lifeless; that it may 
possess at times all the features which make literature 
attractive as well as inspiring. 

The editors are grateful for assistance rendered them 
by Mr. A. W. Leonard and Mr. Archibald Freeman, 
both instructors in Phillips Academy, Andover, Mas- 
sachusetts. 



WILLIAM COWPER 

THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN 
GILPIN 

SHOWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN HE 
INTENDED, AND CAME HOME SAFE AGAIN 

John Gilpin was a citizen 

Of credit and renown, 
A trainband captain eke° was he 

Of famous London town. 

John Gilpin^s spouse said to her dear, 5 

^' Though wedded we have been 

These twice ten tedious years, yet we 
No holiday have seen. 

" To-morrow is our wedding day, 

And we will then repair lo 

Unto the Bell at Edmonton^ 

All in a chaise and pair. 

'^ My sister, and my sister's child, 

Myself, and children three, 
Will fill the chaise; so you must ride 15 

On horseback after we.°'' 
p 1 



EXGLISH XARBATIVE POEMS 

He soon replied, ^^ I do admire 

Of womankind but one, 
And you are she, my dearest dear, 

Therefore it shall be done. 20 

" I am a linendraper bold. 

As all the world doth know. 
And my good friend the calender^ 

Will lend his horse to go." 

Quoth Mrs. Gilpin. " That's well said; 25 

And for that wine is dear. 
We will be furnished with our own, 

Which is both bright and clear." 

John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife; 

Oerjoyed was he to find. 30 

That, though on pleasure she was bent, 

She had a frugal mind. 

The morning came, the chaise was brought, 

But yet was not allowed 
To drive up to the door, lest all 3-5 

Should say that she was proud. 

So three doors off the chaise was stay'd. 

Where they did all get in; 
Six precious souls, and all agog° 

To dash through thick and thin. -^j 

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, 

Were never folks so glad. 
The stones did rattle underneath, 

As if Cheapside® were mad. 



THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN 3 

John Gilpin at his horse's side 45 

Seized fast the flowing mane, 
And up he got, in haste to ride, 

But soon came down again; 

For saddletree^ scarce reached had he 

His journey to begin, 50 

When, turning round his head, he saw 
Three customers come in. 

So down he came; for loss of time, 

Although it grieved him sore. 
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, 55 

Would trouble him much more. 

'Twas long before the customers 

Were suited to their mind. 
When Betty screaming came down stairs, 

'' The wine is left behind ! '' 60 

" Good lack ! '' quoth he — ^^yet bring it me, 

My leathern belt likewise. 
In which I bear my trusty sword 

When I do exercise/' 

Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul !) 65 

Had two stone bottles found. 
To hold the liquor that she loved, 

And keep it safe and sound. 

Each bottle had a curling ear, 

Through which the belt he drew, 70 

And hung a bottle on each side, 

To make his balance true. 



mWGUSB XAMMATTWE PQEIB 

Then over aU, ThsT he might be 

Equipp'd f n>m top to toe. 
His long red doak, well bni^^d and nesl^ 

He manfally did throw. 

Xow see ':/.::. ^ once again 

U :eed, 

r _ :he stones. 



So, ''fair: ?v."Jrfinlie » 

Bat JoL in Tain; 

Thai trot : \^ soihi^ 

In ^ite -^ : aua- 

So stocqiini he must 

Who car. 90 

He grasp Y 

And At 

Hi? horae, who neve 

Had handled bem before. 
What thing upon his back had got 95 

IHd wondo* more and more. 

Aw5ty w«it Gilpia, neck or non^t; 

Away went hat and wig; 
He little dreamt^ when he set out. 

Of ronning such a rig. h» 



THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN 5 

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, 

Like streamer long and ga}^, 
Till, loop and button failing both, 

At last it flew away. 

Then might all people well discern 105 

The bottles he had slung; 
A bottle swinging at each side, 

As hath been said or sung. 

The dogs did bark, the children scream^. 

Up flew the windows all; no 

And every soul cried out, ^^ Well done!'' 
As loud as he could bawl. 

Away went Gilpin — who but he ? 

His fame soon spread around, 
'^ He carries weight ! he 'rides a race° ! 115 

Tis for a thousand pound ! ^' 

And still as fast as he drew near, 

'Twas wonderful to view. 
How in a trice the turnpike men 

Their gates wide open threw. 120 

And now, as he went bowing down 

His reeking head full low. 
The bottles twain behind his back 

Were shattered at a blow. 

Down ran the wine into the road, 125 

Most piteous to be seen, 
Which made his horse's flanks to smoke 

As they had basted been. 



EXGLISH XARRATIVE POEMS 

But still he seem'd to carry weight, 

With leathern girdle braced; 130 

For all might see the bottle necks 

Still dangling at his waist. 

Thus all through merry Islington^ 

These gambols did lie play, 
Until he came unto the Wash 135 

Of Edmonton so gay; 

And there he threw the wash about 

On both sides of the wav, 
Just like unto a trundling mop, 

Or a wild goose at play. 140 

At Edmonton his loving wife 

From the balcony spied 
Her tender husband, wondering much 

To see how he did ride. 

'^ Stop, stop, John Gilpin I — Here's the house/' 145 

They all at once did cry; 
'^ The dinner waits, and we are tired:'' 

Said Gilpin — ^SSo am I ! " 

But yet his horse was not a whit 

Inclined to tarry there; 150 

For why ? — his owner had a house 

Full ten miles off, at Ware.° 

So like an arrow swift he flew, 

Shot by an archer strong; 
So did he fly — which brings me to 155 

The middle of my song. 



THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN 7 

Away went Gilpin out of breathy 

And sore against his will, 
Till at his friend the calender's 

His horse at last stood still. 160 

The calender, amazed to see 

His neighbor in such trim, 
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, 

And thus accosted him : 

" What news? what news? your tidings tell; 165 

Tell me you must and shall — 
Say why bareheaded you are come. 

Or why you come at all ? '^ 

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, 

And loved a timely joke; 170 

And thus unto the calender 

In merry guise he spoke : 

'' I came because your horse would come; 

And, if I well forbode. 
My hat and wig will soon be here, 175 

They are upon the road.'' 

The calender, right glad to find 

His friend in merry pin,^ 
Return' d him not a single word. 

But to the house went in; 180 

Whence straight he came with hat and wig; 

A wig that flow'd behind, 
A hat not much the w^orse for wear, 

Each comely in its kind. 



8 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

He held them up, and in his turn 185 

Thus show'd his ready wit, 
^^ My head is twice as big as yours, 

They therefore needs must fit. 

'' But let me scrape the dirt away 

That hangs upon your face; 190 

And stop and eat, for well you may 
Be in a hungiy case/^ 

Said John, '' It is my wedding day, 
And all the world would stare, 

If wife should dine at Edmonton, 195 

And I should dine at Ware.'^ 

So turning to his horse, he said, 

'^ I am in haste to dine; 
Twas for your pleasure you came here. 

You shall go back for mine/' 200 

Ah luckless speech, and bootless boast ! 

For which he paid full dear; 
For, while he spake, a braying ass 

Did sing most loud and clear; 

Whereat his horse did snort, as he 205 

Had heard a lion roar, 

And gallop' d off with all his might. 
As he had done before. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 

Went Gilpin's hat and wig: 210 

He lost them sooner than at first. 

For w^liy ? — they were too big. 



THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN 9 

Now mistress Gilpin, when she saw 

Her husband posting down 
Into the country far away, 215 

She puird out half a crown; 

And thus unto the youth she said, 

That drove them to the Bell, 
'^ This shall be yours, when you bring back 

My husband safe and well/' 220 

The youth did ride, and soon did meet 

John coming back amain° ; 
Whom in a trice he tried to stop. 

By catching at his rein; 

But not performing what he meant, 225 

And gladly would have done, 
The frighted steed he frighted more, 

And made him faster run. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 

Went postboy at his heels, 230 

The postboy's horse right glad to miss 

The lumbering of the wheels. 

Six gentlemen upon the road, 

Thus seeing Gilpin fly. 
With postboy scampering in the rear, 235 

They raised the hue and cry° : — 

'^ Stop thief ! stop thief ! — a highwayman ! '' 

Not one of them was mute ; 
And all and each that passed that way 

Did join in the pursuit. 240 



10 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

And now the turnpike gates again 

Flew open in short space; 
The toll-men thinking as before, 

That Gilpin rode a race. 

And so he did, and won it too, ^ 245 

For he got first to town; 
Nor stopp'd till where he had got up 

He did again get down. 

Now let us sing, ^^ Long live the king, 

And Gilpin, long live he; " 250 

And when he next doth ride abroad, 
Ma}' I be there to see ! 



TAM 0' SHANTER 11 



ROBERT BURNS 

TAM O^ SHANTER 

" Of brownyis and of bogilis full is this buke." 

Gawin Douglas. 
A Tale 

When chapman billies^ leave the street, 

And drouty° neebors, neebors meet, 

As market-days are wearing late, 

And folk begin to tak the gate°; 

While we sit bousing at the nappy, ° 5 

And gettin^ fou° and unco° happy. 

We think na on the lang Scots miles. 

The mosses, waters, slaps° and styles, 

That he between us and our hame. 

Where sits our sulky sullen dame, 10 

Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 

Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tam o^ Shanter, 

As he frae° Ayr° ae night did canter, 

(Auld Ayr, wham ne^er a town surpasses 15 

For honest men and bonny lasses.) 

O Tam ! hadst thou but been sae wise. 

As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 

She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum,° 

A blethering, ° blustering, drunken blellum°; 20 



12 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

That frae November till October, 

Ae market-clay thou wasna sober; 

That ilka° melder,° wi' the miller, 

Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; 

That every naig was ca'd^ a shoe on, 25 

The smith and thee gat roaring f ou on ; 

That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday, 

Thou drank wi^ Kirkton Jean till Monday. 

She prophesied that, late or soon, 

Thou would be found deep drowned in Doon,° 30 

Or catched wi^ warlocks^ in the mirk,° 

By Alloway's^ auld haunted kirk.^ 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, ^ 

To think how monie counsels sweet, 

How monie lengthened sage advices, 35 

The husband frae the wife despises ! 

But to our tale : — Ae market-night, 

Tam had got planted^ unco right. 

Fast by an ingle, ° bleezing finely, 

Wi' reaming swats, ° that drank divinely; 40 

And at his elbow, Souter° Johnny, 

His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; 

Tam lo'ed him Uke a vera brither — 

They had been fou for weeks thegither ! 

The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter, 45 

And aye the ale was growing better; 

The landlady and Tam grew gracious, 

Wi' favors secret, sweet, and precious; 

The souter tauld his queerest stories. 

The landlord's laugh was ready chorus; 50 



TAM 0' SHATTER 13 

The storm without might rair and rustle — 
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 

E'en drowned himself amang the nappy ! 

As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 55 

The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure : 

Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, 

O'er dJ the ills o' hfe victorious. 

But pleasures are like poppies spread, — 

You seize the flovv^er, its bloom is shed; 60 

Or like the snowfall in the river, — • 

A moment white — then melts forever; 

Or like the borealis race. 

That flit ere you can point their place; 

Or like the rainbow's lovely form, Q^ 

Evanishing amid the storm. 

Nae man can tether time or tide ; 

The hour approaches Tam maun° ride : 

That hour, o' night's black arch the keystane, 

That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; 70 

And sic a night he taks the road in 

As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; 

The rattUng showers rose on the blast ; 

The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed ; 75 

Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowed : 

That night, a child might understand. 

The DeiP had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, 

(A better never lifted leg,) 80 



14 ENGLISH XARRATIVE POEMS 

Tarn skelpit° on through dub° and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire; 
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet. 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; 
Whiles glowering round wi' prudent cares, 85 

Lest bogles° catch him unawares: — 
Kirk-Allowav was drawino; nio'h. 
Where ghaists and houlets° nightly cry. 

By this time he was cross the ford. 

Where in the snaw the chapman smoored°; 90 

And past the birks^ and meikle stane,° 

Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane; 

And through the whins, ° and by the cairn, ° 

Where hunters fand the murdered bairn°; 

And near the thorn, aboon the well, 95 

Where Mungo's mither hanged hersel'. 

Before him Doon pours all his floods; 

The doubling storm roars through the woods; 

The lightnings flash from pole to pole; 

Near and more near the thunders roll ; lOO 

When, glimmering through the groaning trees, 

Kirk-Alloway seemed in a bleeze°; 

Through ilka bore° the beams were glancing, 

And loud resounded mirth and dancing. 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn, ° 105 

What dangers thou canst make us scorn! 

Wi' tippenny , we fear nae evil ; 

Wi' usquebae.° well face the devil ! — 

The swats sae reamed in Tammie's noddle, 

Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle.° no 

But Maggie stood right sair astonished, 

Till, by the heel and hand admonished, 



TAM 0' SHANTER 15 

She ventured forward on the Hght; 

And, vow ! Tarn saw an unco sight ! 

Warlocks and witches in a dance; 115 

Nae cotilhon brent^ new frae France, 

But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, ° and reels, 

Put life and mettle in their heels. 

A winnock-bunker^ in the east. 

There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast; 120 

A towzie tyke,° black, grim, and large, 

To gie them music was his charge; 

He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl, ° 

Till roof and rafters a^ did dirl.° 

Coffins stood round, like open presses, 125 

That shawed the dead in their last dresses; 

And by some devilish cantrip sUght° 

Each in its cauld hand held a hght : 

By which heroic Tam was able 

To note upon the haly table, 130 

A murderer's banes in gibbet aims; 

Twa span-lang, wee unchristened bairns; 

A thief, new-cutted frae the rape, 

Wi' his last gasp his gab^ did gape; 

Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted ; 135 

Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted; 

A garter which a babe had strangled ; 

A knife, a father's throat had mangled. 

Whom his ain son o' hfe bereft, — 

The gray hairs yet stack to the heft : 140 

Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu'. 

Which even to name wad be unlawfu' ! 

As Tammie glow'red, amazed and curious. 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious; 



16 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

The piper loud and louder blew ; 145 

The dancers quick and quicker flew; 

They reeled, they set, they crossed, they cleekit,° 

Till ilka carlin^ swat and reekit, 

And coost her duddies"^ to the wark, 

iVnd hnket° at it in her sark"" ! 150 

Now Tarn, O Tarn ! had thae been queans, ° 

A' plump and strappin' in their teens; 

Their sarks, instead o^ creeshie flannen,° 

Been snaw-vrhite seventeen-hunder linen° ! 

Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 155 

That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, 

I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdles, ° 

For ae bhnk o' the bonny burdies^ ! 

But withered beldams, ° auld and droll 

Rigwoodclie° hags wad spean° a foal, I60 

Louping and flinging on a cummock,° 

I wonder clidna turn thy stomach. 

But Tarn kenned what was what fu' brawlie^; 

There was ae winsome wench and walie,^ 

That night enhsted in the core,° 165 

(Lang after kenned on Carrick shore; 

For monie a beast to dead she shot. 

And perished monie a bonny boat. 

And shook baith meikle corn and bear,° 

And kept the country-side in fear.) 170 

Her cutty-sark,^ o' Paisley harn,^ 

That while a lassie she had won, 

In longitude though sorely scanty, 

It was her best, and she was vauntie.^ 



TAM 0' SHANTER 17 

Ah ! little kenned thy reverend grannie 175 

That sark she coft° for her wee Nannie, 
Wi^ twa pund Scots (^twas a' her riches), 
Wad ever graced a dance o' witches ! 

But here my Muse her wing maun cour; 

Sic flights are far beyond her power ; — 180 

To sing how Nannie lap and flang° 

(A souple jade she was, and Strang), 

And how Tam stood like ane bewitched. 

And thought his very e^en° enriched : 

Even Satan glow'recl and fidged fu^ fain,° 185 

And hotched° and blew wi' might and main: 

Till first ae caper, syne° anither, 

Tam tint° his reason a' thegither, 

And roars out : ^^ Weel done, Cutty-sark ! '' 

And in an instant all was dark : 190 

And scarcely had he Maggie ralhed. 

When out the helhsh legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,° 

When plundering herds assail their byke°; 

As open poussie's mortal foes, 195 

W^hen, pop ! she starts before their nose ; 

As eager runs the market-crowd, 

When '' Catch the thief ! '' resounds aloud; 

So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 

Wi' monie an eldritch^ screech and hollow. 200 

Ah, Tam ! ah, Tam ! thou'll get they fairin' ° ! 
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin' ! 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin' ; 
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 



18 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Now, do thy speedy utmost, ileg, 205 

And win the keystane o' the brig; 

There at them thou thy tail may toss, 

A running-stream they darena cross° ! 

But ere the keystane she could make. 

The fient a tail she had to shake ! 210 

For Nannie, far before the rest. 

Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 

And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle,^ — 

But little wist she Maggie's mettle ! 

Ae spring brought off her master hale, 215 

But left behind her ain gray tail : 

The carlin claught her by the rump. 

And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale 0' truth shall read. 

Ilk man and mother's son, take heed ! 220^ 

Whene'er to drink you are inchned. 

Or cutty-sarks run in your mind. 

Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear, — 

Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare. 



LOCHINVAR 19 



WALTER SCOTT 

LOCHINVAR 

0, YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the west, 
Through all the wide Border^ his steed was the best; 
And, save his good broadsword, he weapons had none. 
He rode all unarmM, and he rode all alone. 
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 5 

There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. 

He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, 

He swam the Esk river° where ford there was none; 

But ere he alighted at Netherby gate. 

The bride had consented, the gallant came late : lo 

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war. 

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 

Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: 

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, 15 

(For the poor craven bridgroom said never a word,) 

^' O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, 

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar? '^ — 

'^ I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied; — 
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like the tide — 20 
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine. 
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. 
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, 
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.'' 



20 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

The bride kiss'd the goblet : the knight took it up, 25 
He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup. 
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh, 
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. 
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, — 
'^ Now tread we a measure ! '^ said young Lochinvar. 30 

So stately his form, and so lovely her face. 
There never a hall such a galliard° did grace; 
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume. 
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and 

plume; 
And the bride-maidens whisper'd, ^' Twere better by 

far, 35 

To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.'' 

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, 
When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood 

near ; 
So hght to the croupe the fair lady he swung, 
So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! 40 

" She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur°; 
They'll have fleet steeds that follow/' quoth young 

Lochinvar. 

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby 

clan; 
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they 

ran; 
There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee. 45 
But the lost bride of Xetherl^y ne'er did they see. 
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war. 
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? 



MICHAEL 21 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

MICHAEL 

A Pastoral Poem 

If from the public way you turn your steps 

Up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll,° 

You will suppose that with an upright path 

Your feet must struggle ; in such bold ascent 

The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. 5 

But courage ! for around that boisterous brook 

The mountains have all opened out themselves, 

And made a hidden valley of their own. 

No habitation can be seen; but they 

Who journey thither find themselves alone lo 

With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites 

That overhead are sailing in the sky. 

It is in truth an utter solitude; 

Nor should I have made mention of this Dell 

But for one object which you might pass by, 15 

Might see and notice not. Beside the brook 

Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones! 

And to that simple object appertains 
A story — unenriched with strange events. 
Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, 20 

Or for the summer shade. It was the first 
Of those domestic tales that spake to me 
Of shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men 
Whom I already loved; not verily 



22 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

For their own sakes. but for the fields and hills 25 

Where was their occupation and abode. 

And hence this Tale, while I was yet a boy 

Careless of books, yet having felt the power 

Of Nature, by the gentle agenc}' 

Of natural objects^ led me on to feel 30 

For passions that were not my own. and think 

(At random and imperfectly indeed) 

On man, the heart of man, and human hfe. 

Therefore, although it be a history 

Homely and rude. I will relate the same 35 

For the deUght of a few natural hearts; 

And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake 

Of youthful Poets, who among these hills 

Will be my second self when I am gone. 

Upon the forest side in Grasmere vale -io 

There dwelt a shepherd, Michael was his name; 
An old man, stout of heart, and strong of Umb. 
His bodily frame had been from youth to age 
Of an unusual strength; his mind was keen, 
Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs, 45 

And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt 
And watcliful more than ordinary men. 
Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds, 
Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes. 
When others heeded not, he heard the South 50 
Make subterraneous music, like the noise 
Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. 
The shepherd, at such warning, of his flock 
Bethought him, and he to himself would say, 
^' The winds are now devising work for me ! " 55 
And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives 
The traveller to a shelter, summoned him 



MICHAEL 23 

Up to the mountains : he had been alone 

Amid the heart of many thousand mists^ 

That came to him, and left him, on the heights. 60 

So Hved he till his eightieth year was past. 

And grossly that man errs who should suppose 

That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks, 

Were things indifferent to the shepherd's thoughts. 

Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed 65 

The common air; hills which with vigorous step 

He had so often climbed ; which had impressed 

So many incidents upon his mind 

Of hardship, sidll or courage, joy or fear; 

Which, like a book, preserved the memory 70 

Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved, 

Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts 

The certainty of honorable gain; 

Those fields, those hills — what could they less ? had 

laid 
Strong hold on his affections, were to him 75 

A pleasurable feehng of bhnd love. 
The pleasure which there is in life itself. 

His days had not been passed in singleness. 
His Helpmate was a comely matron, old — 
Though younger than himself full twenty years. so 

She was a woman of a stirring life. 
Whose heart was in her house : two wheels she had 
Of antique form ; this large, for spinning wool ; 
That small, for flax; and if one wheel had rest 
It was because the other was at work. 85 

The Pair had but one inmate in their house, 
An only Child, who had been born to them 
When Michael, telling o'er his years, began 
To deem that he was old, — in shepherd's phrase, 



24 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

With one foot in the grave. This only Son, 90 

With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm, 

The one of an inestimable worth, 

Made all their household. I may truly say, 

That they were as a proverb in the vale 

For endless industry. When day was gone, 95 

And from their occupations out of doors 

The Son and Father were come home, even then, 

Their labor did not cease; unless when all 

Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and thei'^, 

Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, lOO 

Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes, 

And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the meal 

Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named; 

And his old Father both betook themselves 

To such convenient work as might employ 105 

Their hands by the fireside ; perhaps to card 

Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair 

Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe. 

Or other implement of house or field. 

Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge, no 
That in our ancient uncouth country style 
With huge and black projection overbrowed 
Large space beneath, as duly as the light 
Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp; 
An aged utensil, which had performed ii5 

Service beyond all others of its kind. 
Early at evening did it burn — and late, 
Surviving comrade of uncounted hours. 
Which, going by from year to year, had found, 
And left, the couple neither gay perhaps 120 

Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes, 
Living a life of eager industry. 



MICHAEL 25 

And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year, 

There by the Hght of this old lamp they sate, 

Father and Son, while far into the night 125 

The Housewife plied her own peculiar work. 

Making the cottage through the silent hours 

Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. 

This light was famous in its neighborhood. 

And was a public symbol of the life 130 

That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced. 

Their cottage on a plot of rising ground 

Stood single, with large prospect, north and south. 

High into Easedale,° up to Dunmail-Raise, 

And westward to the village near the lake ; ia5 

And from this constant light, so regular 

And so far seen, the House itself, by all 

Who dwelt within the limits of the vale. 

Both old and young, was named The Evening Star. 

Thus living on through such a length of years, 140 
The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs 
Have loved his Helpmate; but to MichaeFs heart 
This son of his old age was yet more dear — • 
Less from instinctive tenderness, the same 
Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all — 145 
Than that a child, more than all other gifts 
That earth can offer to declining man, 
Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts. 
And stirrings of inquietude, when they 
By tendency of nature need must fail. 150 

Exceeding was the love he bare to him, 
His heart and his hearths joy ! For oftentimes 
Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, 
Had done him female service, not alone 
For pastime and delight, as is the use 155 



26 ENGLISH XARRATIVE POEMS 

Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced 
To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked 
His cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand. 

And, in a later time, ere yet the boy 
Had put on man's attire, did Michael love, 160 

Albeit of a stern unbending mind. 
To have the Young-one in his sight, when he 
Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's stool 
Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched 
Under the large old oak. that near his door 165 

Stood single, and from matchless depth of shade, 
Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun, 
Thence in our rustic dialect was called 
The Chpping Tree, a name which yet it bears. 
There while they two were sitting in the shade, 170 

With others round them, earnest all and bUthe 
Would Michael exercise his heait with looks 
Of fond correction, and reproof bestowed 
Upon the child, if he disturl:)ed the sheep 
By catching at their legs, or with his shouts 175 

Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears. 

And when by Heaven's good grace the boj^ grew up 
A healthy Lad. and carried in his cheek 
Two steady roses that were five years old; 
Then Michael from a winter coppice cut 180 

With his own hand a sapHng. which he hooped 
With iron, making it throughout in all 
Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staflf. 
And gave it to the boy; wherewith equipt 
He as a watchman oftentimes was placed 185 

At gate or gap to stem or turn the flock; 
And. to his office prematurely called, 
There stood the urchin, as you will divine, 



MICHAEL 27 

Something between a hindrance and a help ; 

And for this cause not always, I beheve, 190 

Receiving from his father hire of praise ; 

Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice. 

Or looks or threatening gestures, could perform. 

But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand 
Against the mountain blasts ; and to the heights, 195 
Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, 
He with his father daily went, and they 
Were as companions, why should I relate 
That objects which the shepherd loved before 
Were dearer now ? that from the Boy there came 200 
Feelings and emanations — things which were 
Light to the sun and music to the wind ; 
And that the old Man^s heart seemed born again? 

Thus in his father's sight the Boy grew up; 
And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year, 205 
He was his comfort and his daily hope. 

While in this sort the simple household lived 
From day to day, to Michael's ear there came 
Distressful tidings. Long before the time 
Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound 210 
In surety for his brother's son, a man 
Of an industrious hf e, and ample means ; 
But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly 
Had prest upon him; and old Michael now 
Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture, 215 

A grievous penalty, but little less 
Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim, 
At the first hearing, for a moment took 
More hope out of his Ufe than he supposed 
That any old man ever could have lost. 220 

As soon as he had armed himself with strength 



28 EXGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

To look his troubles in the face, it seemed 

The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once 

A portion of his patrimonial fields. 

Such was his first resolve ; he thought again, 225 

And his heart failed him. " Isabel/'' said he, 

Two evenings after he had heard the news, 

*^ I have been toiling more than seventy years, 

And in the open sunshine of God's love 

Have we all Uved ; yet if these fields of ours 230 

Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think 

That I could not he quiet in my grave. 

Our lot is a hard lot ; the sun himseK 

Has scarcelv been more dilisent than I : 

And I have lived to be a fool at last 235 

To my own family. An evil man 

That was, and made an evil choice, if he 

Were false to us ; and if he were not false, 

There are ten thousand to whom loss hke this 

Had been no sorrow. I forgive him; — but 240 

Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus. 

When I began, my purpose was to speak 
Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. 
Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land 
Shall not go from us, and it shall be free; 245 

He shall possess it, free as is the wind 
That passes over it. We have, thou know'st, 
Another kinsman — he will be our friend 
In this distress. He is a prosperous man. 
Thriving in trade — and Luke to him shall go, 250 
And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift 
He quickly will repair this loss, and then 
He may return to us. If here he stay. 
What can be done? Where every one is poor, 



MICHAEL 29 

What can be gained ?^^ 

At this the old Man paused, 255 
And Isabel sat silent, for her mind 
Was busy, looking back into past times. 
There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself, 
He was a parish-boy — at the church-door 
They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence 260 
And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbors bought 
A basket, which they filled with pedlar's wares; 
And, with this basket on his arm, the lad 
Went up to London, found a master there, 
Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy 265 

To go and overlook his merchandise 
Beyond the seas ; where he grew wondrous rich, 
And left estates and monies to the poor. 
And, at his birthplace, built a chapel, floored 
With marble which he sent from foreign lands. 270 

These thoughts, and many others of like sort, 
Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel, 
And her face brightened. The old Man was glad, 
And thus resumed: — ^^ Well, Isabel ! this scheme 
These two days, has been meat and drink to me. 275 
Far more than we have lost is left us yet. 

— We have enough — I wish indeed that I 
Were younger; — but this hope is a good hope. 

— Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best 

Buy for him more, and let us send him forth 280 

To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night : 

— If he could go, the Boy should go to-night.'' 
Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth 

With a light heart. The Housewife for five days 
Was restless morn and night, and all day long 285 

Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare 



30 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Things needful for the journey of her son. 
But Isabel was glad when Sunday came 
To stop her in her work : for, when she lay 
By Michael's side, she through the last two nights 29o 
Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep ; 
And when they rose at morning she could see 
That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon 
She said to Luke, while they two by themselves 
Were sitting at the door, '' Thou must not go: 295 
We have no other Child but thee to lose, 
None to remember — do not go away, 
For if thou leave thy Father, he will die.'' 
The Youth made answer with a jocund voice; 
And Isabel, when she had told her fears, 300 

Recovered heart. That evening her best fare 
Did she bring forth, and all together sat 
Like happy people round a Christmas fire. 
With daylight Isabel resumed her work; 
And all the ensuing week the house appeared 305 
As cheerful as a grove in Spring : at length 
The expected letter from their kinsman came, 
With kind assurances that he would do 
His utmost for the welfare of the boy; 
To which, requests were added, that forthwith 3io 
He might be sent to him. Ten times or more 
The letter was read over; Isabel 
Went forth to show it to the neighbors round; 
Nor was there at that time on Enghsh land 
A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel 315 

Had to her house returned, the old Man said, 
^^ He shall depart to-morrow." To this word 
The Housewife answered, talking much of things 
Which, if at such short notice he should go, 



MICHAEL 31 

Would surely be forgotten. But at length 320 

She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. 

Near the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll, 
In that deep valley, Michael had designed 
To build a Sheepfold; and, before he heard 
The tidings of his melancholy loss, 325 

For this same purpose he had gathered up 
A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge 
Lay thrown together, ready for the work. 
With Luke that evening thitherward he walked : 
And soon as they had reached the place he stopped, 330 
And thus the old man spoke to him : — ^^ My son, 
To-morrow thou wilt leave me : with full heart 
I look upon thee, for thou art the same 
That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, 
And all thy life hast been my daily joy. 335 

I will relate to thee some little part 
Of our two histories; 'twill do thee good 
When thou art from me, even if I should touch 
On things thou canst not know of. — After thou 
First cam'st into the world — as oft befalls 340 

To new^-born infants — thou didst sleep away 
Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue 
Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on, 
And still I loved thee with increasing love. 
Never to living ear came sweeter sounds 345 

Then when I heard thee by our own fireside 
First uttering, without words, a natural tune; 
While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy 
Sing at thy mother's breast. Month followed month 
And in the open fields my life was passed 350 

And on the mountains; else I think that thou 
Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's knees. 



32 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

But we were playmates, Luke : among these hills, 

As well thou knowest, in us the old and young 

Have played together, nor with me didst thou 355 

Lack any pleasure which a boy can know/' 

Luke had a manly heart; but at these words 

He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand, 

And said, ^^ Nay, do not take it so — I see 

That these are things of which I need not speak. 360 

— Even to the utmost I have been to thee 
A kind and a good Father: and herein 

I but repay a gift which I myself 

Received at others' hands; for, though now old 

Beyond the common life of man, I still 365 

Remember them who loved me in my youth. 

Both of them sleep together : here they Uved, 

As all their Forefathers had done ; and when 

At length their time was come, they were not loth 

To give their bodies to the family mould. 370 

I wished that thou should'st Uve the hfe they hved : 

But, 'tis a long time to look back, my Son, 

And see so little gain from threescore years. 

These fields were burthened when they came to me; 

Till I was forty years of age, not more 375 

Than half of my inheritance was mine. 

I toiled and toiled ; God blessed me in my work, 

And till these three weeks past the land was free. 

— It looks as if it never could endure 

Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, 380 

If I judge ill for tKee, but it seems good 
That thou should'st go." 

At this the old Man paused ; 
Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood. 
Thus, after a short silence, he resumed : 



MICHAEL 33 

'^ This was a work for us; and now, my Son, 385 

It is a work for me. But, lay one stone — 

Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands. 

Nay, Boy, be of good hope; — we both may hve 

To see a better day. At eighty-four 

I still am strong and hale ; — do thou thy part ; 390 

I will do mine. — I will begin again 

With many tasks that were resigned to thee : 

Up to the heights, and in among the storms, 

Will I without thee go again, and do 

All works which I was wont to do alone, 395 

Before I knew thy face. — Heaven bless thee. Boy ! 

Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast 

With many hopes ; it should be so — yes — yes — 

I knew that thou could^st never have a wish 

To leave me, Luke : thou hast been bound to me 4oo 

Only by hnks of love : when thou art gone, 

What will be left to us ! — But, I forget 

My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone. 

As I requested ; and hereafter, Luke, 

When thou art gone away, should evil men 405 

Be thy companions, think of me, m}^ Son, 

And of this moment ; hither turn thy thoughts, 

And God will strengthen thee : amid all fear 

And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou 

May^st bear in mind the hfe thy Fathers lived, 4io 

Who, being innocent, did for that cause 

Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well — ■ 

When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see 

A work which is not here : a covenant 

Twill be between us; but, whatever fate . 415 

Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last. 

And bear thy memory with me to the g;rave.^' 



34 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stooped down, 
And, as his Father had requested, laid 
The first stone of the Sheepfold. At the sight 420 

The old Man's grief broke from him; to his heart 
He pressed his Son, he kissed him and wept; 
And to the house together they returned. 
— Hushed w^as that House in peace, or seeming 

peace, 
Ere the night fell : — with morrow's dawn the Boy 425 
Began his journey, and when he had reached 
The pubhc way, he put on a bold face ; 
And all the neighbors, as he passed their doors, 
Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers, 
That followed him till he was out of sight. 430 

A good report did from their Kinsman come. 
Of Luke and his well-doing: and the Boy 
Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news, 
Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout 
^^ The prettiest letters that were ever seen." 435 

Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. 
So, many months passed on : and once again 
The Shepherd went about his daily work 
With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now 
Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour 440 

He to that valley took his way, and there 
Wrought at the Sheepfold. Meantime Luke began 
To slacken in his duty; and, at length, 
He in the dissolute city gave himself 
To evil courses : ignominy and shame 445 

Fell on him, so that he was driven at last 
To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas. 

There is a comfort in the strength of love; 
'Twill make a thing endurable, which else 



MICHAEL 35 

Would overset the brain, or break the heart : 450 

I have conversed with more than one who well 

Remember the old Man, and what he was 

Years after he had heard this heavy news. 

His bodily frame had been from youth to age 

Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks 455 

He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud, 

And listened to the wind ; and, as before, 

Performed all kinds of labor for his sheep, 

And for the land, his small inheritance. 

And to that hollow dell from time to time 460 

Did he repair, to build the Fold of which 

His flock had need. Tis not forgotten yet 

The pity which was then in every heart 

For the old Man — and His believed by all 

That many and many a day he thither went, 465 

And never lifted up a single stone. 

There, by the Sheepfold, sometimes was he seen 
Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, 
Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. 
The length of full seven years, from time to time, 470 
He at the building of this Sheepfold wrought, 
And left the work unfinished when he died. 
Three years, or little more, did Isabel 
Survive her Husband : at his death the estate 
Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand. 475 

The Cottage which was named the Evening Star 
Is gone — the ploughshare has been through the ground 
On which it stood; great changes have been wrought 
In all the neighborhood : — yet the oak is left 
That grew beside their door; and the remains 480 

Of the unfinished Sheepfold may be seen 
Beside the boisterous brook of Greenhead Ghyll. 



36 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 



LUCY GRAY; OR SOLITUDE 

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: 
And; when I crossed the wild, 
I chanced to see at break of day 
The soUtary child. 

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; 5 

She dwelt on a wide moor. 
— The sweetest thing that ever grew 
Beside a human door ! 

You yet may spy the fawn at pla}^, 

The hare upon the green; lo 

But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 

Will never more be seen. 

'^ To-night will be a stormy night — 

You to the town must go ; 

And take a lantern, child, to Hght 15 

Your mother through the snow.'' 

" That, Father ! will I gladly do : 

'Tis scarcely afternoon — 

The minster-clock has just struck two, 

And yonder is the moon ! '' 20 

At this the father raised his hook, 
And snapped a faggot-band ; 
He plied his work; — and Lucy took 
The lantern in her hand. 



LUCY GRAY; OR SOLITUDE 37 

Not blither is the mountain roe : 25 

With many a wanton stroke 

Her feet disperse the powdery snow, 

That rises up hke smoke. 

The storm came on before its time : 

She wandered up and down; 30 

And many a hill did Lucy climb, 

But never reached the town. 

The wretched parents all that night 

Vv^ent shouting far and wide ; 

But there was neither sound nor sight 35 

To serve them for a guide. 

At day-break on a hill they stood 

That overlooked the moor; 

And thence they saw the bridge of wood, 

A furlong from their door. 40 

They wept — and turning homeward, cried, 
'^ In heaven we all shall meet ! '^ 
— When in the snow the mother spied 
The print of Lucy's feet. 

Then downwards from the steep hilFs edge 45 
They tracked the footprints small; 
And through the broken hawthorn hedge. 
And by the long stone-wall; 

And then an open field they crossed; 

The marks w^ere still the same ; 50 

They tracked them on, nor ever lost; 

And to the bridge they came. 



38 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

They followed from the snowy bank 
Those footmarks^ one by one, 
Into the middle of the plank; ^ 

And further there were none ! 

— Yet some maintain that to this day 

She is a living child; 

That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 

Upon the lonesome wild. 60 

O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 
And never looks behind; 
And sings a solitary song 
That whistles in the wind. 



HOHENLINDEN 39 

THOMAS CAMPBELL 

HOHENLINDEN 

On Linden, when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser,° rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight, 5 

When the drum beat at dead of night, 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed. 

Each horseman drew his battle blade, lo 

And furious every charger neighed. 

To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven, 
Then rushed the steed to battle driven. 
And louder than the bolts of heaven, 15 

Far flashed the red artillery. 

But redder yet that light shall glow. 

On Linden^s hills of stained snow. 

And bloodier yet the torrent flow 

Of Iser, rolhng rapidly. 20 

Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, 



40 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On^ ye brave, 25 

Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave ! 
And charge with all thy chivalry ! 

Few, few shall part where many meet ! 

The snow shall be their winding-sheet, 30 

And every turf beneath their feet 

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 



BATTLE OF THE BALTIC 



Of Nelson and the North, 

Sing the glorious day's renown, 

When to battle fierce came forth 

All the might of Denmark's crown. 

And her arms along the deep proudly shone; 5 

By each gun the hghted brand, 

In a bold determined hand, 

And the Prince of all the land 

Led them on. 

II 

Like leviathans afloat, 10 

Lay their bulwarks on the brine; 

While the sign of battle flew 

On the lofty British line : 

It was ten of April morn by the chime : 

As they drifted on their path, 15 



BATTLE OF THE BALTIC 41 

There was silence deep as death; 
And the boldest held his breath, 
For a time. 

Ill 

But the might of England flushed 

To anticipate the scene; 20 

And her van the fleeter rushed 

O'er the deadly space between. 

'^ Hearts of oak ! '^ our captain cried; when each gun 

From its adamantine lips 

Spread a death-shade round the ships, 25 

Like the hurricane eclipse 

Of the sun. 

IV 

Again ! again ! again ! 

And the havoc did not slack, 

Till a feeble cheer the Dane 30 

To our cheering sent us back; — 

Their shots along the deep slowly boom : — 

Then ceased — and all is wail. 

As they strike the shattered sail; 

Or, in conflagration pale, 35 

Light the gloom. 

V 

Out spoke the victor then. 

As he hailed them o'er the wave; 

" Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! 

And we conquer but to save : — 40 

So peace instead of death let us bring; 

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet. 

With the crews, at England's feet 



42 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

And make submission meet 

To our King." 45 

VI 

Then Denmark bless' d our chief, 

That he gave her wounds repose; 

And the sounds of joy and grief 

From her people wildly rose, 

As Death withdrew his shades from the day, 50 

While the sun looked smiling bright 

O'er a wide and woful sight, 

Where the fires of funeral light 

Died away. 

VII 

Now joy. Old England, raise! 55 

For the tidings of thy might. 

By the festal cities' blaze, • 

Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; 

And yet amidst that joy and uproar, 

Let us think of them that sleep, 60 

Full many a fathom deep. 

By thy wild and stormy steep, 

Elsinore ! 

VIII 

Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride 

Once so faithful and so true ; 65 

On the deck of fame that died; — 

With the gallant good Riou°; 

Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave 

While the billow mournful rolls, 

And the mermaid's song condoles, 70 

Singing glory to the souls 

Of the brave. 



THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA 43 



CHARLES WOLFE 

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT 
CORUNNA^ 

Not a drum was heard^ not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 5 

The sods with our bayonets turning; 
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 

And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless cofRn enclosed his breast, 

Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; 10 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest 

With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said. 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 15 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed. 

And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 

And we far away on the billow ! 20 



44 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, — 

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our weary task was done 25 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; 30 

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone — 

But we left him alone with his glory. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 45 



LORD BYRON 

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 
A Fable 



My hair is gray, but not with years, 
Nor grew it white 
In a single night, 
As men's have grown from sudden fears. ° 
My Hmbs are bowed, though not with toil, 5 

But rusted with a vile repose, 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil, 

And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are banned, and barred — forbidden fare; lo 
But this was for my father's faith 
I suffered chains and courted death; 
That father perished at the stake 
For tenets he would not forsake ; 
And for the same his lineal race is 

In darkness found a dwelling-place; 
We were seven — who now are one. 

Six in youth, and one in age. 
Finished as they had begun. 

Proud of Persecution's rage; 20 

One in fire, and two in field. 
Their belief with blood have sealed° : 
Dying as their father died, 
For the God their foes denied ; — 



46 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Three were in a dungeon cast, 25 

Of whom this wreck is left the last. 



n 

There are seven° pillars of Gothic mould 

In Chillon's dungeons deep and old, 

There are seven columns massy and gray, 

Dim with a dull imprisoned ray, 30 

A sunbeam which hath lost its way. 

And through the cre^4ce and the cleft 

Of the thick wall is fallen and left : 

Creeping o'er the floor so damp. 

Like a marsh's meteor lamp° : 35 

And in each pillar there is a ring, 

And in each ring there is a chain; 
That iron is a cankering^ thing. 

For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
With marks that will not wear away 40 

Till I have done with this new day, 
Which now is painful to these eyes, 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I cannot count them o'er, 
I lost their long and heavy score 45 

When my last brother drooped and died. 
And I lav livino: bv his side. 



Ill 

They chained us each to a column stone. 
And we were three — yet, each alone; 
We could not move a single pace. 50 

We could not see each other's face, 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 47 

But with that pale and livid light 

That made us strangers in our sight : 

And thus together — yet apart, 

Fettered in hand, but joined in heart; ^^ 

Twas still some solace, in the dearth 

Of the pure elements^ of earth, 

To hearken to each other's speech, 

And each turn comforter to each 

With some new hope or legend old, 60 

Or song heroically bold; 

But even these at length grew cold. 

Our voices took a dreary tone. 

An echo of the dungeon stone, 

A grating sound — not full and free 65 

As they of yore were wont to be ; 
It might be fancy — but to me 

They never sounded like our own. 

IV 

I was the eldest of the three. 

And to uphold and cheer the rest 70 

I ought to do — and did my best — 

And each did well in his degree. 

The youngest, whom my father loved. 

Because our mother's brow was given 

To him — with eyes as blue as heaven, 75 

For him my soul was sorely moved : 

And truly might it be distressed 

To see such bird in such a nest; 

For he was beautiful as day — 

(When day was beautiful to me 80 

As to young eagles being free) — 



48 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

A polar day,° which will not see 
A sunset till its summer's gone. 

Its sleepless summer of long light, 
The snow-clad offspring of the sun: 85 

And thus he was as pure and bright, 
And in his natural spirit gay, 
With tears for naught but others' ills, 
And then they flowed like mountain rills. 
Unless he could assuage the woe 90 

Which he abhorred to view below. 



The other was as pure of mind, 

But formed to combat with his kind; 

Strong in his frame, and of a mood 

Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, 95 

And perished in the foremost rank 

With joy: — but not in chains to pine: 
His spirit withered with their clank, 

I saw it silently decline — 

And so perchance in sooth° did mine: lOO 

But yet I forced it on to cheer 
Those relics of a home so clear. 
He was a hunter of the hills. 

Had followed there the deer and wolf; 

To him this dungeon was a gulf, 105 

And fettered feet the worst of ills. 



YI 

Lake Leman° lies by Chillon's walls, 
A thousand feet in depth below 
Its massy waters meet and flow; 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 49 

Thus much the fathom-line was sent no 

From Chillon's snow-white battlement, 

Which round about the wave inthrals : 
A double dungeon wall and wave 
Have made — and like a living grave. 
Below the surface of the lake lis 

The dark vault lies wherein w^e lay, 
We heard it ripple night and day; 

Sounding o'er our heads it knocked 
And I have felt the winter's spray 
Wash through the bars when wdnds were high 120 
And wanton in the happy sky ; 

And then the very rock hath rocked, 

And I have felt it shake, unshocked, 
Because I could have smiled to see 
The death that would have set me free. 125 



VII 

I said m}^ nearer brother pined, 

I said his mighty heart declined, 

He loathed and put away his food; 

It was not that 'twas coarse and rude. 

For we were used to hunter's fare, i30 

And for the like had little care: 

The milk drawn from the mountain goat 

Was changed for water from the moat,° 

Our bread vv\as such as captive's tears 

Have moistened many a thousand years, 135 

Since man first pent his fellow-men 

Like brutes within an iron den; 

But what were these to us or him ? 

These wasted not his heart or limb ; 



60 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

/ 

My brother's soul was of that mould 140 

Which in a palace had grown cold, 

Had his free breathing been denied 

The range of the steep mountain's side; 

But why delay the truth ? — he died. 

I saw, and could not hold his head, 145 

Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, — 

Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, 

To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 

He died, and they unlocked his chain, 

And scooped for him a shallow grave 150 

Even from the cold earth of our cave. 

I begged them, as a boon, to lay 

His corse in dust whereon the day 

Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 

But then within my brain it wrought, 155 

That even in death his freeborn breast 

In such a dungeon could not rest. 

I might have spared my idle prayer — 

They coldly laughed — and laid him there : 

The flat and turfless earth above 160 

The being we so much did love; 

His empty chain above it leant. 

Such murder's fitting monument ! 

VIII 

But he, the favourite and the flower, 

Most cherished since his natal hour, 165 

His mother's image in fair face, 

The infant love of all his race. 

His martyred father's dearest thought. 

My latest care, for whom I sought 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 51 

To hoard my life, that his might be 170 

Less wretched now, and one da}^ free; 

He, too, who yet had held untired 

A spirit natural or inspired — 

He, too, was struck, and day by day 

Was withered on the stalk away. 175 

Oh, God ! it is a fearful thing 

To see the human soul take wing 

In any shape, in any mood : — 

I've seen it rushing forth in blood, ° 

I've seen it on the breaking ocean 180 

Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 

I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 

Of Sin delirious with its dread : 

But these were horrors — this was woe 

Unmixed with such — but sure and slow ; 185 

He faded, and so calm and meek, 

So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 

So tearless, yet so tender — kind, 

And grieved for those he left behind ; 

With all the while a cheek whose bloom 190 

Was as a mockery of the tomb, 

Whose tints as gently sunk away 

As a departing rainbow's ray — 

An eye of most transparent light. 

That almost made the dungeon bright, 195 

And not a word of murmur — not 

A groan o'er his untimely lot, — 

A little talk of better days, 

A little hope my own to raise. 

For I was sunk in silence — lost 200 

In this last loss, of all the most; 

And then the sighs he would suppress 



62 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Of fainting nature's feebleness, 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less : 

I listened, but I could not hear — 205 

I called, for I w^as wild with fear; 

I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 

Would not be thus admonished; 

I called, and thought I heard a sound — 

I burst my chain with one strong bound, 210 

And rushed to him : — I found him not, 

/ only stirred in this black spot, 

/ only lived — / only drew 

The accursed breath of dungeon-dew ; 

The last — the sole — the dearest link 215 

Between me and the eternal brink, 

Which bound me to my failing race. 

Was broken in this fatal place. 

One on the earth, and one beneath — 

M}^ brothers — both had ceased to breathe; 220 

I took that hand which lay so still, 

Alas ! my own was full as chill; 

I had not strength to stir, or strive, 

But felt that I was still alive — 

A frantic feeling, when we know 225 

That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not why 

I could not die, 
I had no earthly hope — but faith. 
And that forbade a selfish death. ° 230 



IX 

What next befell me then and there 
I know not well — I never knew - 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 53 

First came the loss of light, and air, 

And then of darkness too : 
I had no thought, no feehng — none — 235 

Among the stones I stood a stone, 
And was, scarce conscious what I wist,^ 
As shrubless crags within the mist; 
For all was blank, and bleak, and gray, 
It was not night — it was not day, 240 

It was not even the dungeon-light, 
So hateful to my heavy sight. 
But vacancy absorbing space, 
And fixedness — without a place; 
There were no stars — no earth — no time — 245 
No check — no change — no good — no crime — 
But silence, and a stirless breath 
Which neither was of life nor death ; 
A sea of stagnant idleness, 
Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless ! 250 



A light broke in upon my brain, — 

It was the carol of a bird ; 
It ceased, and then it came again. 

The sweetest song ear ever heard, 
And mine was thankful till my eyes 255 

Ran over with the glad surprise. 
And they that moment could not see 
I was the mate of misery ; 
But then by dull degrees came back 
My senses to their wonted track, 260 

I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
Close slowly round me as before, 



54 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

I saw the glimmer of the sun 

Creeping as it before had done, 

But through the crevice where it came 265 

That bird was perched, as fond and tame, 

And tamer than upon the tree; 
A lovely bird, with azure wings. 
And song that said a thousand things, 

And seemed to say them all for me ! 270 

I never saw its like before, 
I ne^er shall see its likeness more: 
It seemed like me to want a mate, 
But was not half so desolate. 

And it was come to love me when 275 

None lived to love me so again. 
And cheering from my dungeon's brink. 
Had brought me back to feel and think. 
I know not if it late were free. 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 280 

But knowing well captivity. 

Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine ! 
Or if it w^ere, in winged guise, 
A visitant from Paradise; 

For — Heaven forgive that thought ! the while 285 
Which made me both to weep and smile; 
I sometimes deemed that it might be 
My brother's soul° come down to me; 
But then at last away it flew. 
And then 'twas mortal — well I knew, 290 

For he would never thus have flown, 
And left me twice so doubly lone, — 
liOne — as the corse within its shroud, 
Lone — as a solitary cloud,° 

A single cloud on a sunny day, 295 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON bb 

While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
A frown upon the atmosphere, 
That hath no business to appear 

When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 

XI 

A kind of change came in my fate, 300 

My keepers grew compassionate; 

I know not what had made them so, 

They w^ere inured to sights of woe, 

But so it was : — my broken chain 

With links unfastened did remain, 305 

And it was liberty to stride 

Along my cell from side to side. 

And up and down, and then athwart, 

And tread it over every part ; 

And round the pillars one by one, 3io 

Returning where my walk begun. 

Avoiding only, as I trod. 

My brothers' graves without a sod; 

For if I thought with heedless tread 

My step profaned their lowly bed, 315 

My breath came gaspingly and thick. 

And my crushed heart fell blind and sick. 

XII 

I made a footing in the wall, 

It was not therefrom to escape. 
For I had buried one and all 320 

Who loved me in a human shape; 
And the whole earth would henceforth be 
A wider prison unto me : 



56 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

No child — no sire — no kin had I, 

No partner in my misery; 325 

I thought of this, and I was glad, 

For thought of them had made me mad; 

But I was curious to ascend 

To my barred windows, and to bend 

Once more, upon the mountains high, 330 

The quiet of a loving eye. 

XIII 

I saw them — and they were the same, 

They were not changed like me in frame; 

I saw their thousand years of snow 

On high — their wide long lake below, 335 

And the blue Rhone in fullest flow; 

I heard the torrents leap and gush 

O'er channelled rock and broken bush; 

I saw the white-walled distant town, 

And whiter sails go skimming down; 340 

And then there was a little isle,° 

Which in my very face did smile, 

The only one in view; 
A small green isle it seemed no more, 
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, 345 

But in it there were three tall trees. 
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, 
And by it there were waters flowing, 
And on it there were young flowers growing. 

Of gentle breath and hue. 350 

The fish swam by the castle wall. 
And they seemed joyous each and all; 
The eagle rode the rising blast, 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 57 

Methought he never flew so fast 

As then to me he seemed to fly, 355 

And then new tears came in my eye, 

And I felt troubled — and would fain 

I had not left my recent chain; 

And when I did descend again, 

The darkness of my dim abode 360 

Fell on me as a heavy load; 

It was as is a new-dug grave, 

Closing o^er one we sought to save, — 

And yet my glance, too much oppressed. 

Had almost need of such a rest. 365 



XIV 

It might be months, or years, or days, 

I kept no count — I took no note, 
I had no hope my eyes to raise. 

And clear them of their dreary mote; 
At last men came to set me free, 370 

I asked not why, and recked not where, 
It was at length the same to me. 
Fettered or fetterless to be, 

I learned to love despair. 
And thus when they appeared at last, 375 

And all my bonds aside were cast, 
These heavy walls to me had grown 
A hermitage — and all my own ! 
And half I felt as they were come 
To tear me from a second home : 380 

With spiders I had friendship made. 
And watched them in their sullen trade. 
Had seen the mice by moonlight play. 



58 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

And why should I feel less than they? 

We were all inmates of one place, 385 

And I, the monarch of each race, 

Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell ! 

In quiet we had learned to dwell — 

My very chains and I grew friends, 

So much a long communion tends 390 

To make us what we are : — even I 

Regained my freedom with a sigh.^ 

MAZEPPA 



'TwAS after dread Pultowa's^ day, 

When Fortune left the royal Swede. 
Around a slaughter' d army lay, 

No more to combat and to bleed. 
The power and glory of the war, 5 

Faithless as their vain votaries, men, 
Had pass'd to the triumphant Czar, 

And Moscow's walls were safe again, 
Until a day more dark and drear, ° 
And a more memorable year, lo 

Should give to slaughter and to shame 
A mightier host and haughtier name; 
A greater wreck, a deeper fall, 
A shock to one — a thunderbolt to all. 

II 

Such was the hazard of the die°; 15 

The wounded Charles was taught to fly 
By day and night through field and flood, 



MAZEPPA 69 

Stain' d with his own and subjects' blood; 

For thousands fell that flight to aid : 

And not a voice was heard t' upbraid 20 

Ambition in his humbled hour, 

When truth had naught to dread from power. 

His horse was slain, and Gieta° gave 

His own — and died the Russians' slave. 

This too sinks after many a league 25 

Of well-sustain' d, but vain fatigue; 

And in the depth of forests darkling, 

The watch-fires in the distance sparkling — 

The beacons of surrounding foes — 
A king must lay his limbs at length. so 

Are these the laurels and repose 
For which the nations strain their strength ? 
They laid him by a savage tree, 
In outworn nature's agony; 

His wounds were stiff — his limbs were stark — 35 
The heavy hour was chill and dark; 
The fever in his blood forbade 
A transient slumber's fitful aid: 
And thus it was ; but yet through all, 
Kinglike the monarch bore his fall, 40 

And made, in this extreme of ill. 
His pangs the vassals of his will: 
All silent and subdued were they. 
As once the nations round him lay. 

Ill 

A band of chiefs ! — alas ! how few, 45 

Since but the fleeting of a day 
Had thinn'd it; but this wreck was true 
And chivalrous : upon the clay 



60 ESGLISR SAKRATITE POEMS 

Each sate him <;lown. all sad and mute, 

Besi*le his monarch an*! his sieed, 30 

For danger levels man an<i bnite."^ 
And all are fellows in their need. 

Among the rest. Mazeppa made 

His pillow in an old oak's shade — 

Himself as rough, and scarce less old. 55 

The Ukraine's hetman.^ calm and bold. 

But first, outspent with his long course. 

The Cossack prince rubb'd down his horse, 

And made for him a leafy bed. 

And smoothed his fetLxrks and his mane. eo 

And slaek'd his girth, and stripped his reJn^ 

And joyd to see how wdl he fed; 

For untH now he had the dread 

His wearied courser might refuse 

To browse beneath the miinight dews : 65 

But he was hardy as his IodI. 

And little cared for bel and board; 

But spirited and doeUe too ; 

Whatever was to be done, would do. 

Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb^ TO 

All Tartar-like he carried him ; 

Obey'd his voice, and came to call. 

And knew him in the midst of all : 

Though thousands were aroond. — and Night. 

Wr ' a star, pursued her fligh". — 75 

TL - red from sunset until da~:i 

His chief would foUow like a fawiu 

IT 

This done^ Maaeppa qyread his doak. 
And laid his lance breath his oak. 



MAZEPPA 61 

Felt if his arms in order good so 

The long day's march had well withstood — 
If still the powder fill'd the pan, 

And flints unloosen' d kept their lock — 
His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt, 
And whether they had chafed his belt — 85 

And next the venerable man, 
From out his haversack and can, 

Prepared and spread his slender stock; 
And to the monarch and his men 
The whole or portion offer' d then 90 

With far less of inquietude 
Than courtiers at a banquet would. 
And Charles of this his slender share 
With smiles partook a moment there, 
To force of cheer a greater show, 95 

And seem above both wounds and woe; — 
And then he said — ^^ Of all our band, 
Though firm of heart and strong of hand, 
In skirmish, march, or forage, none 
Can less have said or more have done lOO 

Than thee, Mazeppa ! On the earth 
So fit a pain had never birth. 
Since Alexander's days till now, 
As thy Bucephalus'^ and thou : 
All Scythia's° fame to thine should yield 105 

For pricking on o'er flood and field/' 
Mazeppa answer'd — ^^ 111 betide 
The school wherein I learn' d to ride ! '^ 
Quoth Charles — ^' Old Hetman, wherefore so. 
Since thou hast learn'd the art so well? " no 

Mazeppa said — ^^ 'Twere long to tell; 
And we have many a league to go, 



(52 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 



With every now and then a blow, 

And ten to one at least the foe, 

Before our steeds may graze at ease 115 

Beyond the swift Borysthenes° ; 

And, sire, your limbs have need of rest, 

And I will be the sentinel 

Of this your troop. '^ — ^^ But I request,^^ 

Said Sweden's monarch, ^^ thou wilt tell 120 

This tale of thine, and I may reap. 

Perchance, from this the boon of sleep; 

For at this moment from my eyes 

The hope of present slumber flies.'' 

'^ Well, sire, wdth such a hope, I'll track 125 

My seventy years of memory back : 

I think 'twas in my twentieth spring, — 

Ay, 'twas, — when Casimir was king — 

John Casimir, — I was his page 

Six summers, in my earlier age. 130 

A learned monarch, faith ! was he, 

And most unlike your majesty: 

He made no wars, and did not gain 

New realms to lose them back again; 

And (save debates in Warsaw's diet) 135 

He reign' d in most unseemly quiet; 

Not that he had no cares to vex. 

He loved the muses and the sex; 

And sometimes these so froward are. 

They made him wish himself at war; 140 

But soon his wrath being o'er, he took 

Another mistress, or new book. 

And then he gave prodigious fetes — 

All Warsaw gather' d round his gates 



MAZEPPA 63 

To gaze upon his splendid court, 145 

And dames, and chiefs, of princely port : 

He was the Polish Solomon, 

So sung his poets, all but one, 

Who, being unpension'd, made a satire, 

And boasted that he could not flatter. ^ 150 

It was a court of jousts and mimes, ° 

Where every courtier tried at rhymes ; 

Even I for once produced some verses. 

And sign'd my odes ^ Despairing Thyrsis.° * 

There was a certain Palatine, ° 155 

A count of far and high descent, 
Rich as a salt or silver mine; 
And he was proud, ye may divine. 

As if from heaven he had been sent. 
He had such wealth in blood and ore 160 

As few could match beneath the throne; 
And he would gaze upon his store. 
And o'er his pedigree would pore. 
Until by some confusion led. 
Which almost look'd like want of head, 165 

He thought their merits were his own. 
His wife was not of his opinion — 

His junior she by thirty years — 
Grew daily tired of his dominion ; 

And, after wishes, hopes, and fears, 170 

To virtue a few farew^ell tears, 
A restless dream or two, some glances 
At Warsaw's youth, some songs, and dances, 
Awaited but the usual chances, 
(Those happy accidents which render 175 

The coldest dames so very tender,) 
To deck her Count w^ith titles given, 



64 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

'Tis said, as passports into heaven; 

But, strange to say, they rarely boast 

Of these, who have deserved them most. 180 



" I was a goodly stripling then; 

At seventy years I so may say, 
That there were few, or boys or men, 

Who, in my dawning time of day, 
Of vassal or of knight's degree, 185 

Could vie in vanities with me; 
For I had strength, youth, gaiety, 
A port, not like to this ye see. 
But as smooth as all is rugged now; 

For time, and care, and war, have ploughed 190 
My very soul from out my brow; 

And thus I should be disavowed 
By all my kind and kin, could they 
Compare my day and yesterday. 
This change was wrought, too, long ere age 195 
Had ta'en my features for his page: 
With years, ye know, have not declined 
My strength, my courage, or my mind, 
Or at this hour I should not be 
Telling old tales beneath a tree, 200 

With starless skies my canopy. 
But let me on: Theresa's form — 
Methinks it glides before me now, 
Between me and yon chestnut's bough, 
The memory is so quick and warm; 205 

And yet I find no words to tell 
The shape of her I loved so well. 



MAZEPPA 65 

She had the Asiatic eye, 

Such as our Turkish neighbourhood. 

Hath mingled with our Pohsh blood; 210 

Dark as above us is the sky; 
But through it stole a tender light, 
Like the first moonrise of midnight; 
Large, dark, and swimming in the stream, 
Which seem'd to melt to its own beam; 215 

All love, half languor, and half fire, 
Like saints that at the stake expire, 
And lift their raptured looks on high 
As though it were a joy to die; — 
A brow like a midsummer lake, 220 

Transparent with the sun therein. 
When waves no murmur dare to make, 

And heaven beholds her face within; 
A cheek and lip — but why proceed ? 

I loved her then — I love her still ; 225 

And such as I am, love indeed 

In fierce extremes — in good and ill; 
But still we love even in our rage, 
And haunted to our very age 
With the vain shadow^ of the past, , 230 

As is Mazeppa to the last. 

VI 

'^ We met — we gazed — I saw, and sighM, 

She did not speak, and yet replied : 

There are ten thousand tones and signs 

We hear and see, but none defines — 235 

Involuntary sparks of thought. 

Which strike from out the heart overwrought^ 



66 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

And form a strange intelligence 

Alike mysterious and intense, 

Which link the burning chain that binds, 240 

Without their will, young hearts and minds : 

Conveying, as the electric wire. 

We know not how, the absorbing fire. — 

I saw, and sigh'd — in silence wept. 

And still reluctant distance kept, 245 

Until I was made known to her. 

And we might then and there confer 

Without suspicion — then, even then, 

I long'd, and was resolved to speak; 
But on my lips they died again, 250 

The accents tremulous and weak. 
Until one hour. — There is a game, 

A frivolous and foolish play. 

Wherewith we while away the day; 
It is — I have forgot the name — 255 

And we to this, it seems, were set. 
By some strange chance, which I forget : 
I reckon' d not if I won or lost. 

It was enough for me to be 

So near to hear, and oh ! to see 260 

The being whom I loved the most. 
I watch' d her as a sentinel, 
(May ours this dark night watch as well !) 

Until I saw, and thus it was. 
That she was pensive, nor perceived 265 

Her occupation, nor was grieved 
Nor glad to lose or gain ; but still 
Play'd on for hours, as if her will 
Yet bound her to the place, though not 
That hers might be the winning lot. 270 



i 



MAZEPPA 67 

Then through my brain the thought did pass 
Even as a flash of lightning tliere^ 
That there was something in her air 
Which would not doom me to despair; 
And on the thought my words broke forth, 275 

All incoherent as they were — 
Their eloquence was little worth, 
But yet she listened — ^tis enough — 

Who listens once will listen twice ; 

Her heart, be sure, is not of ice, 280 

And one refusal no rebuff. 



VII 

'^ I loved, and was beloved again — 

They tell me, sire, you never knew 

Those gentle frailties ; if 'tis true, 
I shorten all my joy or pain; 285 

To you 'twould seem absurd as vain; 
But all men are not born to reign, 
Or o'er their passions, or as you 
Thus o'er themselves and nations too. 
I am — or rather was — a prince, 290 

A chief of thousands, and could lead 

Them on where each would foremost bleed ; 
But could not o'er myself evince 
The like control. — But to resume : 

I loved, and was beloved again; 295 

In sooth, it is a happy doom. 

But yet where happiest ends in pain. — 
We met in secret, and the hour 
Which led me to that lady's bower 
Was fiery Expectation's dower. 300 



68 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

My days and nights were nothing — all 
Except that hour which doth recall 
In the long lapse from youth to age 

Xo other hke itself — I'd give 

The Ukraine back again to live 305 

It o'er once more — and be a page, 
The happy page, who was the lord 
Of one soft heart and his own sword, 
x\nd had no other gem nor wealth 
Save nature's gift of youth and health. — 3io 

We met in secret — doubly sweet, 
Some say, they find it so to meet; 
I know not that — I would have given 

My life but to have call'd her mine 
In the full view of earth and heaven; 315 

For I did oft and long repine 
That we could onh^ meet b}^ stealth. 

VIII 

'^ For lovers there are manv eves, 

And such there were on us; — the devil 

On such occasions should be civil — 320 

The devil ! — I'm loth to do him wrong, 
It might be some untoward saint, 

Who would not be at rest too long 
But to his pious bile gave vent — 

But one fair night, some lurking spies 325 

Surprised and seized us both. 

The Count was something more than wroth — 
I was unarm'd; but if in steel, 

All cap-a-pie° from head to heel. 

What 'gainst their numbers could I do ? — 330 



MAZEPPA 69 

Twas near his castle, far away 

From city or from succour near, 
And almost on the break of day; 
I did not think to see another, 
^ My moments seem'd reduced to few; 335 

And with one prayer to Mary Mother, 

And, it may be, a saint or two, 
As I resigned me to my fate, 
They led me to the castle gate : 

Theresa's doom I never knew, 340 

Our lot was henceforth separate — 
An angry man, ye may opine. 
Was he, the proud Count Palatine; 
And he had reason good to be. 

But he was most enraged lest such 345 

An accident should chance to touch 
Upon his future pedigree ; 
Nor less amazed, that such a blot 
His noble 'scutcheon^ should have got, 
While he was highest of his line; 350 

Because unto himself he seemed 

The first of men, nor less he deem'd 
In others' eyes, and most in mine. 
'Sdeath ! with a j)age — perchance a king 
Had reconciled him to the thing; 355 

But vvdth a stripling of a page — 
I felt — but cannot paint his rage. 



IX 



li ( 



Bring forth the horse ! ' — the horse was brought; 
In truth, he was a noble steed, 
A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, 360 



70 EXGLISH XARRATIVE POEMS 

Who look'd as though the speed of thought 
Were in his hmbs; but he was wild, 

Wild as the wild deer, and untaught, 
With spur and bridle undefiled — 

Twas but a day he had been caught ; 365 

And snorting, with erected mane, 
And struggHng fiercely, but in vain, 
In the full foam of wrath and dread 
To me the desert-born was led. 
They bound me on, that menial throng, 370 

Upon his back with many a thong; 
They loosed him with a sudden lash — 
Away ! — away ! — and on we dash ! — 
Torrents less rapid and less rash. 



'' Away ! — away ! — ily breath was gone — 375 

I saw not where he hurried on : 

Twas scarcely yet the break of day. 

And on he foam'd — away ! — away ! — 

The last of human sounds which rose, 

As I was darted from my foes. 380 

Was the wild shout of savage laughter. 

Which on the wind came roaring after 

A moment from that rabble rout : 

With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head. 

And snapped the cord, which to the mane 385 

Had bound my neck in lieu of rein, 
And writhing half my form about, 
Howl'd back my curse; but 'midst the tread. 
The thunder of my courser's speed. 



MAZEPPA 71 

Perchance they did not hear nor heed : 390 

It vexes me — for I would fain 
Have paid tlieir insult back again. 
I paid it well in after days : 
There is not of that castle gate, 
Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight, 395 

Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left; 
Nor of its fields a blade of grass, 

Save what grows on a ridge of wall 

Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall; 
And many a time ye there might pass, 400 

Nor dream that e'er that fortress was: 
I saw its turrets in a blaze, 
Their crackling battlements all cleft. 

And the hot lead pour down like rain 
From off the scorch'd and blackening roof, 405 

Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof. 

They httle thought that day of pain, 
When launched, as on the lightning's flash, 
They bade me to destruction dash. 

That one day I should come again, 4io 

With twice five thousand horse, to thank 

The Count for his uncourteous ride. 
They play'd me then a bitter prank. 

When, with the wild horse for my guide, 
They bound me to his foaming flank: 415 

At length I play'd them one as frank — 
For time at last sets all things even — 

And if we do but watch the hour. 

There never yet was human power 
Which could evade, if unforgiven, 420 

The patient search and vigil long 
Of him who treasures up a wrong. 



72 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 



XI 



" Away, away, my steed and I, 
Upon the pinions of the wind. 

All human dwellings left behind ; 425 

We sped hke meteors through the sky, 
When with its crackling sound the night 
Is chequer'd with the northern Hght. 
Town — Village — none were on our track, 

But a wild plain of far extent, 430 

And bounded by a forest black; 

And, save the scarce seen battlement 
On distant heights of some stronghold, 
Against the Tartars built of old. 
No trace of man : the year before 435 

A Turkish army had march'd o'er; 
And where the Spahi's° hoof hath trod. 
The verdure flies the bloody sod. 
The sky was dull, and dim, and gray. 

And a low breeze crept moaning by — 440 

I could have answer'd with a sigh — 
But fast we fled, away, away — • 
And I could neither sigh nor pray; 
And my cold sweat-drops fell hke rain 
Upon the courser^s bristling mane; 445 

But, snorting still with rage and fear. 
He flew upon his far career. 
At times I almost thought, indeed. 
He must have slackened in his speed; 
But no — my bound and slender frame 450 

Was nothing to his angry might, 
And merely like a spur became : 



MAZEPFA 73 

Each motion which I made to free 
My swoln Umbs from their agony 

Increased his fury and affright : 455 

I tried my voice, — ^twas faint and low, 
But yet lie swerved as from a blow; 
And, starting to each accent, sprang 
As from a sudden trumpet's clang. 
Meantime my cords were wet with gore, 460 

Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o^er; 
And in mv tongue the thirst became 
A something fierier far than flame. 

XII 

" We near'd the wild v>^ood — ^twas so wide, 

I saw no bounds on either side ; 465 

Twas studded with old sturdy trees, 

That bent not to the roughest breeze 

Which howls down from Siberia's w^aste 

And strips the forest in its haste, — 

But these were few and far between, 470 

Set thick with shrubs more young and green. 

Luxuriant with their annual leaves. 

Ere strown by those autumnal eves 

That nip the forest's fohage dead, 

Discolour'd with a lifeless red, 475 

Which stands thereon like stiffened gore 

Upon the slain when battle's o'er. 

And some long winter's night hath shed 

Its frost o'er every tombless head, 

So cold and stark the raven's beak 480 

May peck unpierced each frozen cheek. 

'Twas a wild waste of underwood. 



74 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

And here and there a chestnut stood, 
The strong oak, and the hardy pine; 

But far apart — and well it were, 485 

Or else a different lot were mine — 

The boughs gave way, and did not tear 
My hmbs; and I found strength to bear 
My wounds already scarr'd with cold — 
My bonds forbade to loose my hold. 490 

We rustled through the leaves like wind, 
Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind; 
By night I heard them on the track. 
Their troop came hard upon our back. 
With their long gallop which can tire 495 

The hound's deep hate and hunter's fire: 
Where'er we flew they follow'd on. 
Nor left us with the morning sun; 
Behind I saw them, scarce a rood. 
At daybreak winding through the wood, 500 

And through the night had heard their feet 
Their stealing, rusthng step repeat. 
Oh ! how I wish'd for spear or sword. 
At least to die amidst the horde, 
And perish — if it must be so — 505 

At bay, destroying many a foe. 
When first my courser's race begun, 
I wish'd the goal already won; 
But now I doubted strength and speed. 
Vain doubt ! his swift and savage breed 510 

Had nerved him like the mountain-roe; 
Nor faster falls the blinding snow 
Which whelms the peasant near the door 
Whose threshold he shall cross no more, 
Bewilder'd with the dazzhng blast, 515 



MAZEPPA 75 

Than through the forest-paths he past — • 

Untired, untamed, and worse than wild ; 

All furious as a favoured child 

Balked of its wish ; or fiercer still — 

A woman piqued — who has her will. 520 

XIII 

'^ The wood was past; 'twas more than noon, 

But chill the air although in June ; 

Or it might be my veins ran cold — 

Prolonged endurance tames the bold; 

And I was then not what I seem, 525 

But headlong as a wintry stream, 

And wore my feelings out before 

I well could count their causes o'er. 

And what with fury, fear, and wrath, 

The tortures which beset my path, 530 

Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress. 

Thus bound in nature's nakedness, 

(Sprung from a race whose rising blood 

When stirr'd beyond its calmer mood, 

And trodden hard upon, is like 535 

The rattlesnake's in act to strike,) 

What marvel if this worn-out trunk 

Beneath its woes a moment sunk ? 

The earth gave way, the skies roll'd round, 

I seem'd to sink upon the ground; 540 

But err'd, for I was fastly bound. 

My heart turn'd sick, my brain grew sore, 

And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more; 

The skies spun like a mighty wheel; 

I saw the trees like drunkards reel, 545 



76 ENGLISH NARRATIVE FOEMS 

And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes, 

Which saw no farther : he who dies 

Can die no more than then I died. 

O'ertortured by that ghastly ride, 

I felt the blackness come and go, 550 

And strove to wake; but could not make 

My senses climb up from below : 

I felt as on a plank at sea, 

When all the waves that dash o'er thee, 

At the same time upheave and whelm, 555 

And hurl thee towards a desert realm. 

My undulating life was as 

The fancied lights that flitting pass 

Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when 

Fever begins upon the brain; 560 

But soon it pass'd, with little pain. 
But a confusion worse than such : 
I own that I should deem it much. 

Dying, to feel the same again; 

And yet T do suppose we must 565 

Feel far more ere we turn to dust : 

No matter; I have bared my brow 

Full in Death's face — before — and now. 



XIV 

'' My thoughts came back; where was I? Cold, 
And numb, and giddy : pulse by pulse 570 

Life reassumed its lingering hold. 

And throb by throb : till grown a pang 

Which for a moment would convulse, 

My blood reflow'd though thick and chill; 

My ear with uncouth"^ noises rang, 575 



MAZEPPA 77 

My heart began once more to thrill ; 
My sight return' d, though dim, alas ! 
And thickened, as it were, with glass. 
Methought the dash of waves was nigh : 
There was a gleam too of the sky, 580 

Studded with stars; — it is no dream; 
The wild horse swims the wilder stream ! 
The bright broad river's gushing tide 
Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide, 
And we are half-way, struggling o'er 585 

To yon unknown and silent shore. 
The waters broke my hollow trance, 

And with a temporary strength 
My stiffen' d limbs were rebaptized. 
My courser's broad breast proudly braves 590 
And dashes off the ascending waves, 
And onward we advance ! 

We reach the slippery shore at length, 
A haven I but little prized. 
For all behind was dark and drear, 595 

And all before was night and fear. 
How many hours of night or day 
In those suspended pangs I lay, 
I could not tell ; I scarcely knew 
If this were human breath I drew. 600 

XV 

'' With glossy skin, and dripping mane. 
And reeling limbs, and reeking flank. 

The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain 
Up the repelling bank. 

We gain the top : a boundless plain 605 



78 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Spreads through the shadow of the night, 

And onward, onward, onward, seems. 

Like precipices in our dreams. 
To stretch beyond the sight; 
And here and there a speck of white, 6io 

Or scattered spot of dusky green. 
In masses broke into the Hght, 
As rose the moon upon my right. 

But nought distinctly seen 
In the dim waste would indicate 615 

The omen of a cottage gate; 
No twinkling taper from afar 
Stood like a hospitable star; 
Not even an ignis-fatuus° rose 
To make him merry with my woes: 620 

That very cheat had cheer'd me then! 
Although detected, welcome still, 
Reminding me, through every ill, 

Of the abodes of men. 



XVI 

'^ Onward we went — but slack and slow; 625 

His savage force at length o'erspent, 
The drooping courser, faint and low. 

All feebly foaming went. 
A sickly infant had had power 
To guide him forward in that hour; 630 

But useless all to me. 
His new-born tameness nought availed — 
My limbs were bound; my force had fail'd, 

Perchance, had thev been free. 
With feeble effort still I tried 635 



MAZEPPA 79 

To rend the bonds so starkly tied — 

But still it was in vain; 
My limbs were only wrung the more, 
And soon the idle strife gave o'er, 

Which but prolonged their pain. 640 

The dizzy race seem'd almost done, 
Although no goal was nearly won: 
Some streaks announced the coming sun — 

How slow, alas ! he came ! 
Methought that mist of dawning gray 645 

Would never dapple into day; 
How heavily it rolFd away — 

Before the eastern flame 
Rose crimson, and deposed the stars, 
And calFd the radiance from their cars, 650 

And filled the earth, from his deep throne, 
With lonely lustre, all his own. 



XVII 



'^ Up rose the sun; the mists were curFd 

Back from the solitary world 

Which lay around — behind — before; 655 

What booted it to traverse o'er 

Plain, forest, river ? Man nor brute, 

Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot. 

Lay in the wild luxuriant soil ; 

No sign of travel — none of toil ; 660 

The very air was mute; 

And not an insect's shrill small horn, 

Nor matin bird's new voice was borne 

From herb nor thicket. Many a werst,° 



80 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Panting as if his heart would burst, 665 

The weary brute still staggerM on; 

And still we were — or seemed — alone. 

At length, while reeling on our way, 

Methought I heard a courser neigh 

From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 670 

Is it the wind those branches stirs ? 

No, no ! from out the forest prance 

A trampling troop; I see them come ! 
In one vast squadron they advance ! 

I strove to cry — my lips were dumb. 675 

The steeds rush on in plunging pride ; 
But where are they the reins to guide ? 
A thousand horse — and none to ride ! 
With flowing tail, and flying mane. 
Wide nostrils — never stretched by pain, 680 
Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein, 
And feet that iron never shod. 
And flanks unscarr^d by spur or rod, 
A thousand horse, the wild, the free. 
Like waves that follow o'er the sea, 685 

Came thickly thundering on, 
As if our faint approach to meet. 
The sight re-nerved my courser's feet, 
A moment staggering, feebly fleet, 
A moment, with a faint low neigh, 690 

He answer'd, and then fell; 
With gasps and glazing eyes he lay. 

And reeking limbs immoveable; 
His first and last career is done ! 
On came the troop — they saw him stoop, 695 

They saw me strangely bound along 

His back with many a bloody thong : 



MAZEPPA 81 

They stop — they start — they snuff the air, 

Gallop a moment here and there, 

Approach, retire, wheel round and round, 700 

Then plunging back with sudden bound. 

Headed by one black might}^ steed 

Who seem'd the patriarch of his breed, 

Without a single speck or hair 
Of white upon his shaggy hide. 705 

They snort — they foam — neigh — swerve aside. 
And backward to the forest fly. 
By instinct, from a human eye. — 

They left me there to my despair, 
Link'd to the dead and stiffening wTetch, 7io 
Whose lifeless limbs beneath m_e stretch, 
Relieved from that unwonted weight, 
From whence I could not extricate 
Nor him nor me — and there we lay 

The dying on the dead ! 715 

I little deem'd another day 

Would see my houseless, helpless head. 

" And there from morn till twilight bound, 

I felt the heavy hours toil round, 

With just enough of life to see 720 

My last of suns go down on me, 

In hopeless certainty of mind. 

That makes us feel at length resigned 

To that which our foreboding years 

Presents the worst and last of fears 725 

Inevitable — even a boon. 

Nor more unkind for coming soon; 

Yet shunned and dreaded with such care, 

As if it only were a snare 



82 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

That prudence might escape : 730 

At times both wished for and implored, 
At times sought with self-pointed sword, 
Yet still a dark and hideous close 
To even intolerable woes, 

And welcome in no shape. 735 

And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure, 
They who have revell'd beyond measure 
In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure. 
Die calm, or calmer oft than he 
Whose heritage was misery : 740 

For he who hath in turn run through 
All that was beautiful and new, 

Hath nought to hope, and nought to leave; 
And, save the future (which is viewed 
Not quite as men are base or good, 745 

But as their nerves may be endued,) 

With nought perhaps to grieve : — 
The wretch still hopes his woes must end. 
And Death, whom he should deem his friend, 
Appears, to his distemper' d eyes, 750 

Arrived to rob him of his prize. 
The tree of his new Paradise. 
To-morrow would have given him all, 
Repaid his pangs, repaired his fall; 
To-morrow would have been the first 755 

Of days no more deplored or curst. 
But bright, and long, and beckoning years. 
Seen dazzling through the mist of tears. 
Guerdon of many a painful hour; 
To-morrow would have given him power 760 
To rule, to shine, to smite, to save — 
And must it dawn upon his grave? 



MAZEPPA 83 



XVIII 

*' The sun was sinking — still I lay 

Chain'd to the chill and stiffening steed; 
I thought to mingle there our clay; 765 

And my dim eyes of death had need, 

No hope arose of being freed. 
I cast my last looks up the sky, 

And there between me and the sun 
I saw the expecting raven fly, 770 

Who scarce would wait till both should die 

Ere his repast begun. 
He flew, and perch'd, then flew once more, 
And each time nearer than before; 
I saw his wing through twilight flit, 775 

And once so near me he alit 

I could have smote, but lacked the strength; 
But the slight motion of my hand. 
And feeble scratching of the sand, 
The exerted throat's faint struggling noise, 780 
Which scarcely could be calPd a voice. 

Together scared him off at length. — 
I know no more — my latest dream 

Is something of a lovely star 

Which fix'd my dull eyes from afar, 785 

And went and came with wandering beam. 
And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense 
Sensation of recurring sense. 

And then subsiding back to death. 

And then again a little breath, 790 

A little thrill, a short suspense. 

An icy sickness curdling o'er 



84 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

My heart, and sparks that crossM my brain — 
A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, 

A sigh, and nothing more. 795 

XIX 

^' I woke — Where was I ? — Do I see 

A human face look down on me ? 

And doth a roof above me close ? 

Do these limbs on a couch repose ? 

Is this a chamber where I lie ? 800 

And is it mortal, yon bright eye 

That watches me with gentle glance? 

I closed my own again once more, 
As doubtful that the former trance 

Could not as yet be o'er. 805 

A slender girl, long-hair'd, and tall, 
Sate watching by the cottage wall : 
The sparkle of her eye I caught. 
Even with my first return of thought; 
For ever and anon she threw 8io 

A prying, pitying glance on me 

With her black eyes so wild and free. 
I gazed, and gazed, until I knew 

No vision it could be, — 
But that I lived, and was released 815 

From adding to the vulture's feast. 
And when the Cossack maid beheld 
My heavy eyes at length unseal' d, 
She smiled — and I essay'd to speak, 

But fail'd — and she approach'd, and made 820 

With lip and finger signs that said, 
I must not strive as vet to break 



MAZEPPA 85 

The silence^ till my strength should be 

Enough to leave my accents free; 

And then her hand on mine she laid, 825 

And smoothed the pillow for my head, 

And stola along on tiptoe tread, 

And gently oped the door, and spake 
In whispers — ne'er was voice so sweet ! 
Even music followed her light feet; — 830 

But those she calFd were not awake, 
And she went forth; but, ere she pass'd, 
Another look on me she cast, 

Another sign she made, to say. 
That I had nought to fear, that all 835 

Were near at my command or call. 

And she would not delay 
Her due return : — while she was gone, 
Methought I felt too much alone. 

XX 

^^ She came with mother and with sire — 840 

What need of more ? — I wdll not tire 

With long recital of the rest, 

Since I became the Cossack's guest. 

They found me senseless on the plain — 

They bore me to the nearest hut — 845 

They brought me into life again — 
Me — one day o'er their realm to reign ! 

Thus the vain fool who strove to glut 
His rage, refining on m}^ pain. 

Sent me forth to the wilderness, 850 

Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone, 
To pass the desert to a throne, — 



86 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

What mortal his own doom may guess? — 

Let none despond, let none despair ! 
To-morrow the Borysthenes 855 

May see our coursers graze at ease 
Upon his Turkish bank, — and never 
Had I such welcome for a j'iver 

As I shall yield when safely there. 
Comrades, good night ! '' — The Hetman threw 860 

His length beneath the oak-tree shade, 

With leafy couch already made, 
A bed nor comfortless nor new 
To him who took his rest whene'er 
The hour arrived, no matter where: 865 

His eyes the hastening slumbers steep. 
And if ye marvel Charles forgot 
To thank his tale he wonder'd not, — 

The king had been an hour asleep. 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea. 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, 5 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen: 
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast. 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; lo 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB 87 

And the e3^es of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew 
still ! 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 15 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale. 

With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail, 

And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 

The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 20 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 



88 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

JOHN KEATS 
THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 



St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was ! 
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; 
The hare limp'cl trembling through the frozen grass, 
And silent was the flock in woolly fold : 
Numb were the Beadsman's^ fingers, while he told 5 
His rosary, and while his frosted breath, 
Like pious incense from a censer old, 
Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death. 
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. 

II 

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man; lo 

Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees 
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, 
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees: 
The sculptured dead, on each side, seem to freeze, 
Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails: 15 

Knights, ladies, praying in dumb oratories, 
He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails 
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. 

Ill 

Northward he turneth through a little door, 

And scarce fhree steps, ere Music's golden tongue 20 

Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor; 

But no — already had his death-bell rung; 



( 



•4 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 89 

The joys of all his life were said and sung: 
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve : 
Another way he went, and soon among 25 

Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, 
And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve. 

IV 

That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft ; 
And so it chanced, for many a door was wide, 
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, 30 

The silver, snarling^ trumpets 'gan to chide: 
The level chambers, ready with their pride, 
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests: 
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed. 
Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests, 35 
With hair blown back, and wings put crosswise on their 
breasts. 

V 

At length burst in the argent revelry, 
With plume, tiara, and all rich array. 
Numerous as shadows haunting fairily 
The brain, new-stuff M, °in youth, with triumphs gay 40 
Of old romance. These let us wish away. 
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there. 
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day, 
On love, and wing'cl St. Agnes' saintly care. 
As she had heard old dames full many times declare. 45 

VI 

They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve,° 
Young virgins might have visions of delight, 
And soft adorings from their loves receive 
Upon the honey' d middle of the night, 



90 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

If ceremonies due they did aright ; 50 

As^ supperless to bed they must retire, 
And couch supine their beauties, hly white; 
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require 
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. 

VII 

Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline: 55 

The music, yearning like a God in pain. 
She scarcely heard : her maiden eyes divine, 
Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train 
Pass by — she heeded not at all : in vain 
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, 60 

And back retired; not cool'd by high disdain. 
But she saw not : her heart was otherwhere ; 
She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year. 

VIII 

She danced along with vague, regardless eyes, 
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short: 65 
The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs 
Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort 
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport ; 
'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, 
Hoodwdnk'd with faery fancy; all amort, ° 70 

Save to St. Agnes and her lambs° unshorn, 
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. 

IX 

So, purposing each moment to retire. 
She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors, 
Had come young Porphyro,° with heart on fire 75 
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, 



Ji 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 91 

Buttress'd^ from moonlight; stands he, and implores 
All saints to give him sight of Madeline, 
But for one moment in the tedious hours, 
That he might gaze and worship all unseen ; so 

Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth° such 
things have been. 

X 

He ventures in: let no buzzM whisper tell: 
All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords 
Will storm his heart, Love's feverous citadel : 
For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes, 85 
Hyena^ foemen, and hot-blooded lords. 
Whose very dogs would execrations howl 
Against his lineage : not one breast affords 
Him any mercy, in that mansion foul. 
Save one old beldame,^ weak in body and in soul. 90 

XI 

Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature came, 
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand, 
To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame, 
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 
The sound of merriment and chorus bland : 95 

He startled her; but soon she knew his face. 
And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand. 
Saying, ^^ Mercy, Porphyro ! hie thee from this place; 
They are all here to-night, the whole bloodthirsty race ! 

XII 

'^ Get hence ! get hence ! there's dwarfish Hilde- 
brand ; lOO 

He had a fever late, and in the fit 
He cursed thee and thine, both house and land: 



92 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Then there^s that old Lord Maurice, not a whit 
More tame for his gray hairs — Alas me ! flit ! 
Flit like a ghost away.'' — '' Ah, Gossip^ dear, 105 
We're safe enough; here in this armchair sit. 
And tell me how " — ^^ Good Saints ! not here, not here; 
Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier." 

XIII 

He followed through a lowly arched way. 
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume; no 

And as she mutter' d '' Well-a — well-a-day ! '^ 
He found him in a little moonlight room, 
Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. 
^^ Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, 
^^ O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom° lis 

Which none but secret sisterhood may see, 
When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." 

XIV 

'' St. Agnes ! Ah ! it is St. Agnes' Eve — 
Yet men will murder upon holy days : 
Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve,^ 120 

And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, 
To venture so : it fills me with amaze 
To see thee, Porphyro ! — St. Agnes' Eve ! 
God's help ! my lady fair the conjuror plays 
This very night : good angels her deceive ! 125 

But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle° time to grieve." ^ 

XV \ 

Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, ^' 

While Porphyro upon her face doth look, 
Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 93 

Who keepeth closed a wond'rous riddlebook, 130 

As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. 
But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told 
His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook 
Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold, 
And Madeline asleep in lap° of legends old. 135 

XVI 

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, 
Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart 
Made purple riot° : then doth he propose 
A stratagem, that makes the beldame start : 
'^ A cruel man and impious thou art: 140 

Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream 
Alone with her good angels, far apart 
From wicked men like thee. Go, go ! I deem 
Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst 



seem.'' 



XVII 



'^I will not harmx her, by all saints I swear," 145 

Quoth Porph3a^o : '^0 may I ne'er find grace 
When my weak voice shall whisper its last prajer, 
If one of her soft ringlets I displace. 
Or look with ruffian passion in her face: 
Good Angela, believe me by these tears; 150 

Or I will, even in a moment's space. 
Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears, 
And beard them, though they be more fang'd than 
wolves and bears." 

XVIII 

" Ah ! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul ? 

A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church-yard thing, 155 



94 ENGLISH XARRATIVE POEMS 

Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll; 
Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening, 
Were never miss'd.'' Thus plaining, doth she bring 
^ gentler speech from burning Porphyro; 
So woful, and of such deep sorrowing, 160 

That Angela gives promise she will do 
Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. 

XIX 

Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, 
Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide 
Him in a closet, of such privacy 16^ 

That he might see her beauty unespied. 
And win perhaps that night a peerless bride, 
While legion'd fairies paced the coverlet. 
And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. 
Never on such a night have lovers met, 170 

Since Merlin^ paid his Demon all the monstrous debt. 

XX 

'^It shall be as thou wishest,^^ said the Dame: 
''All cates^ and dainties shall be stored there 
Quickly on this feast-night : by the tambour frame® 
Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare, 175 
For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer 
The while: Ah ! thou must needs the lady wed. 
Or may I never leave my grave among the dead.'' 180 

XXI 

So saying she hobbled off with busy fear. 
The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd; 



THE EVE OF ST. AGXES 96 

The Dame return^, and whispered in his ear 
To fohow her; with aged eyes aghast 
From fright of dim espiaL Safe at last, 185 

Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 
The maiden's chamber, silken, hush VI and chaste; 
Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. 
His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. 

XXII 

Her faltering hand upon the balustrade, 190 

Old Angela was feeling for the stair, 
When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid, 

• Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware: 
With silver taper's light, and pious care, 
She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led 195 

To a safe level matting. Now prepare. 
Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed; 

She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd and fled. 

XXIII 

Out went the taper as she hurried in; 
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died : 200 

She closed the door, she panted, all akin 
To spirits of the air, and visions wide : 
No uttered syllable, or, woe betide ! 
But to her heart, her heart was voluble. 
Paining with eloquence her balmy side ; 205 

As though a tongueless nightingale should swell 
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in her dell. 

XXIV 

A casement high° and triple arch'd there was, 
All garlanded with carven imageries 



96 ENGLISH XARRATIVE POEMS 

Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, 210 
And diamonded with panes of quaint device, 
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, 
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings; 
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,^ 
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,'^ 215 

A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and 
kino;s. 

^ XXV 

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon. 
And threw warm gules° on Madehne's fair breast, 
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon; 
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, 220 
And on her silver cross soft amethyst. 
And on her hair a glory, like a saint : 
She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest, 
Save wings, for heaven: — Porphyro grew faint; 
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. 225 

XXVI 

Anon his heart revives : her vespers done. 
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees; 
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one; 
Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees 
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees : 230 

Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed. 
Pensive awhile she dreamt awake, and sees, 
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, 
But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. 

XXVII 

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, 235 

In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay, 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 97 

Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressed 
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away; 
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day; 
Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain; 240 

Clasp'd like a missaP where swart Paynims pray; 
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, 
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. 

XXVIII 

StoFn to this paradise, and so entranced, 
Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, 245 

And listened to her breathing, if it chanced 
To wake into a slumberous tenderness ; 
Which when he heard, that minute did he bless. 
And breathed himself : then from the closet crept, 
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, 250 

And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept. 
And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo ! — how fast 
she slept. 

"^ XXIX 

Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon 
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 
A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon 255 

A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet: — 
O for some drowsy Morphean° amulet ! 
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion. 
The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet. 
Affray his ears, though but in dying tone : — 260 

The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. 

XXX 

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, ° 
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd. 



98 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

While he from forth the closet brought a heap 
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd; 265 
With jellies soother^ than the creamy curd, 
And lucent^ syrops, tinct with cinnamon; 
Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd 
From Fez ; and spiced dainties, every one, 
From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon. 270 

XXXI 

These delicates he heaped with glowing hand 
On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
Of wreathed silver : sumptuous they stand 
In the retired quiet of the night. 
Filling the chilly room with perfume hght. — 275 
^^\nd now^, my love, my seraph fair, awake ! 
Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite°: 
Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake. 
Or I shall drowse beside thee, so mv soul doth ache/' 

XXXII 

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 280 

Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream 
By the dusk curtains: — 'twas a midnight charm 
Impossible to melt as iced stream : 
The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam; 
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies: 285 

It seem'd he never, never could redeem 
From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes; 
So mused awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies. 

XXXIII 

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and, in chords that tenderest be, 290 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 99 



,o n 



He play'cl an ancient ditty, long since mute, 
In Provence caird "La belle dame sans mercy:' 
Close to her ear touching the melody ; — 
Wherewith disturbed, she utter'd a soft moan: 
He ceased — she panted quick — and suddenly 295 
Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone : 
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptuied 
stone. 

XXXIV 

Her eyes were open, but she still beheld. 
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep : 
There was a painful change, that nigh expelFd 300 
The bUsses of her dream so pure and deep 
At which fair Madeline began to weep. 
And moan forth witless words with many a sigh; 
While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep; 
Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, 305 
Fearing to move or speak, she looked so dreamingiy. 

XXXV 

'^ Ah, Porphyro ! '' said she, ^^ but even now 
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear. 
Made tuneable with every sweetest vow; 
And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear: 3io 

How changed thou art ! how pallid, chill, and drear ! 
Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 
Those looks immortal, those complainings dear ! 
Oh leave me not in this eternal woe, 
For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go." 315 

XXXVI 

Beyond a mortal man impassion' d far 
At these voluptuous accents, he arose, 



100 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star 
Seen ^mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose; 
Into her dream he melted, as the rose 320 

Blendeth its odour with the violet, — 
Solution sweet : meantime the frost-wind blows 
Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet 
Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set. 

XXXVII 

Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet: 325 
'^ This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline ! '' 
'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat: 
'^ No dream, alas ! alas ! and woe is mine ! 
Porph3^ro will leave me here to fade and pine. — 
Cruel ! what traitor could thee hither bring ? 330 

I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine. 
Though thou forsakest a deceived thing; — 
A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing.'^ 

XXXVIII 

'^ My Madeline ! sweet dreamer ! lovely bride ! 
Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ? 335 

Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed? 
Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest 
After so many hours of toil and quest, 
A famish'd pilgrim, — saved by miracle. 
Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest 340 

Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well 
To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. 

XXXIX 

^^ Hark ! ^tis an elfin storm from faery land, 
Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed : 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 101 

Arise — arise ! the morning is at hand : — 345 

The bloated wassailers° will never heed : — 
Let us away, my love, with happy speed ; 
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, — 
Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead: 
Awake ! arise ! my love, and fearless be, 350 

For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.'' 

XL 

She hurried at his words, beset wdth fears, 
For there were sleeping dragons all around, 
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears — 
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found. — 355 
In all the house w^as heard no human sound. 
A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door; 
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, 
Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar; 
And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. 360 

XLI 

They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall; 
Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide, 
Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl, 
With a huge empty flagon by his side : 
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, 365 
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns : 
By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide : — 
The chains lie silent on the footworn stones; — 
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans ; 

XLII 

And they are gone : aye, ages long ago 370 

These lovers fled away into the storm. 



102 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe, 
And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form 
Of witch, and demon, and large cofRn-worm, 
Were long be-nightmared. Angela^ the old 375 

Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform; 
The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, 
For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. 



I 



DOMA 103 



ALFRED TENNYSON 

DORA 

With farmer Allan at the farm abode 
William and Dora. William was his son, 
And she his niece. He often looked at them, 
And often thought, ^^ I'll make them man and wife.'' 
Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, 5 

And yearn'd towards William; but the youth, because 
He had been always with her in the house. 
Thought not of Dora. 

Then there came a day 
When Allan call'd his son, and said, '' My son: 
I married late, but I would wish to see lo 

My grandchild on my knees before I die : 
And I have set my heart upon a match. 
Now therefore look to Dora; she is well 
To look to; thrifty too beyond her age. 
She is my brother's daughter: he and I 15 

Had once hard words, and parted, and he died 
In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred 
His daughter Dora: take her for your wife; 
For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day. 
For many years." But William answer'd short: 20 
^^I cannot marry Dora; by my life, 
I will not marry Dora." Then the old man 
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said : 
^' You will not, boy ! you dare to answer thus ! 
But in my time a father's word was law, 25 



104 EXGLISH XARRATIVE POEMS 

And so it shall be now for me. Look to it; 

Consider, William: take a month to think, 

And let me have an answer to my wish; 

Ov, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, 

And never more darken mv doors a2:ain/' 30 

But William answer'd madly; bit his lips. 

And broke away. The more he look'd at her 

The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh; 

But Dora bore them meekly. Then before 

The month was out he left his father's house, 35 

And hired himself to work within the fields; 

And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed 

A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. 

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd 
His niece and said : '' My girl, I love you well; 40 
But if you speak with him that was my son, 
Or change a word with her he calls his wife, 
My home is none of yours. My will is law.'' 
And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, 
'^ It cannot be: my uncle's mind will change ! '' 45 

And days went on, and there was born a boy 
To William; then distresses came on him; 
And day by day he pass'd his father's gate, 
Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not. 
But Dora stored what little she could save, 50 

And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know 
Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized 
On William, and in harvest time he died. 

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat 
And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought 55 
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said: 

''I have obey'd my uncle until now. 
And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me 



DORA 105 

This evil came on William at the first. 

But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, 60 

And for your sake, the woman that he chose. 

And for this orphan, I am come to you : 

You know there has not been for these five years 

So full a harvest : let me take the boy, 

And I will set him in my uncle's eye 65 

Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad 

Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, 

And bless him for the sake of him that's gone." 

And Dora took the child, and went her way 
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound 70 

That was unsown, where many poppies grew. 
Far off the farmer came into the field 
And spied her not; for none of all his men 
Dare tell him Dora waited with the child ; 
And Dora would have risen and gone to him, 75 

But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd. 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 

But when the morrow came, she rose and took 
The child once more, and sat upon the mound ; 
And made a little wreath of all the flowers 80 

That grew about, and tied it round his hat 
To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. 
Then when the farmer pass'd into the field 
He spied her, and he left his men at work. 
And came and said : ^^ Where were you yesterday ? 85 
Whose child is that? What are you doing here? " 
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground. 
And answer' d softly, '' This is William's child ! " 
^' And did I not," said Allan, ^' did I not 
Forbid you, Dora? " Dora said again: 90 

^^ Do with me as you will, but take the child, 



106 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

And bless him for the sake of him that's gone ! '' 

And Allan said, '^ I see it is a trick 

Got up betwixt you and the woman there. 

I must be taught my duty, and by you ! 95 

You knew my word was law, and yet you dared 

To sUght it. Well — for I will take the boy; 

But go you hence, and never see me more.'' 

So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud 
And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell lOO 
At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, 
And the boy's cry came to her from the field. 
More and more distant. She bow'd down her head. 
Remembering the day when first she came, 
And all the things that had been. She bow'd 
down 105 

And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd, 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 

Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood 
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy 
Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise no 
To God, that help'd her in her widowhood. 
And Dora said, ^^ My uncle took the boy; 
But, Mary, let me live and work with you : 
He says that he will never see me more." 
Then answer' d Mary, ^^ This shall never be, 115 

That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself: 
And, now I think, he shall not have the boy. 
For he will teach him hardness, and to slight 
His mother; therefore thou and I will go. 
And I will have my boy, and bring him home; 120 
And I will beg of him to take thee back : 
But if he will not take thee back again. 
Then thou and I will live within one house, 



DORA 107 

And work for William's child; until he grows 
Of age to help us.'' 

So the women kiss'd 125 

Each other, and set out, and reach' d the farm. 
The door was off the latch: they peep'd, and saw 
The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, 
Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, 
And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, 130 
Like one that loved him: and the lad stretch' d out 
And babbled for the golden seal, that hung 
From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. 
Then they came in : but when the boy beheld 
His mother, he cried out to come to her : 135 

And Allan set him down, and Mary said : 

^^ O Father ! — if you let me call you so — ; 
I never came a-begging for myself. 
Or William, or this child ; but now I come 
For Dora: take her back; she loves you w^ell. 140 

Sir, when William died, he died at peace 
With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said, 
He could not ever rue his marrying me — 

1 had been a patient wife : but. Sir, he said 

That he was wrong to cross his father thus : 145 

^ God bless him ! ' he said, ^ and may he never know 
The troubles I have gone thro' ! ' Then he turn'd 
His face and pass'd — unhappy that I am ! 
But now. Sir, let me have my boy, for you 
Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight 150 
His father's memory; and take Dora back. 
And let all this be as it was before." 

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face 
By Mary. There was silence in the room ; 
And all at once the old man burst in sobs : — 155 



108 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

'' I have been to blame — to blame. I have kilPd 
my son. 
I have kiird him — but I loved him — my dear; son. 
May God forgive me ! — I have been to blame. 
Kiss me, my children.'^ 

Then they clung about 
The old man^s neck, and kiss'd him many times 160 
And all the man was broken with remorse; 
And all his love came back a hundredfold; 
And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child. 
Thinking of William. 

So those four abode 
Within one house together; and as years 165 

Went forward, Mary took another mate; 
But Dora lived unmarried till her death. 

(ENONE — 1832 

There lies a vale in Ida,"^ lovelier 

Than all the valleys of Ionian^ hills. 

The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen, 

Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine, 

And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand 5 

The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down 

Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars 

The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine 

In cataract after cataract to the sea. 

Behind the valley topmost Gargarus^ lo 

Stands up and takes the morning : but in front 

The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal 

Troas° and IUon's° column'd citadel, 

The crown of Troas. 

Hither came at noon 



J 



(ENONE 109 

Mournful (Enone, wandering forlorn 15 

Of PariS;° once her playmate on the hills. 

Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck 

Floated her hair or seemM to float in rest. 

She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine, 

Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade 20 

Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff. 

'* mother Ida, many-fountain' d Ida, 

Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 

For now the noonday quiet holds the hill : 

The grasshopper is silent in the grass : 25 

The lizard, with his shadow on the stone. 

Rests like a shadow, and the winds are dead. 

The purple flower droops : the golden bee 

Is lily-cradled : I alone awake. 

My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, 30 

My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim, 

And I am all aweary of my life. 

'^ mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, 

Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 

Hear me, Earth, hear me, O Hills, O Caves 35 

That house the cold crown' d snake ! O mountain brooks, 

I am the daughter of a River-God, ° 

Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all 

My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls 

Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, ° 40 

A cloud that gathered shape: for it may be 

^hat, while I speak of it, a little while 

My heart may wander from its deeper woe. 

^^ O mother Ida, many-fountain' d Ida, 

Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 45 



110 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

I waited underneath the dawning hills, 

Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark, 

And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine: 

Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, 

Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, white hooved, 50 

Came up from reedy Simois° all alone. 

'^ O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 

Far-off the torrent call'd me from the cleft: 

Far up the solitary morning smote 

The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyes bo 

I sat alone: white-breasted like a star 

Fronting the dawn he moved; a leopard skin 

Droop' d from his shoulder, but his sunny hair 

Clustered about his temples like a God's: 

And his cheek brightened as the foam-bow brightens r^o 

When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart 

Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came. 

^^ Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 

He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm 

Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian^ gold, 65 

That smelt ambrosially,° and while I look'd 

And listened, the full-flowing river of speech 

Came down upon my heart. 

^^ ' M}^ own (Enone, 
Beautiful-brow' d (Enone, my own soul, 
Behold this fruit whose gleaming rind ingrav'n 70 

'' For the most fair," would seem to award it thine 
As lovelier than whatever Oread° haunt 
The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace 
Of movement and the charm of married brows.' 



(ENONE 111 

^^ Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 75 

He prest the blossom of his lips to mine. 

And added, ' This was cast upon the board, 

When all the full-faced presence of the Gods 

Ranged in the halls of Peleus°; whereupon 

Rose feud, with question unto whom 'twere due: 80 

But light-foot Iris° brought it yester-eve, 

Delivering, that to me, by common voice 

Elected umpire, Here° comes to-day, 

Pallas° and Aphrodite, ° claiming each 

This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave 85 

Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, 

Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard 

Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods/ 

'^ Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 

It was the deep midnoon : one silvery cloud 90 

Had lost his way between the piney sides 

Of this long glen. Then to the bower they came, 

Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower. 

And at their feet the crocus brake like fire, 

Violet, amaracus,^ and asphodel, ° 95 

Lotos and lilies : and a wind arose. 

And overhead the wandering ivy and vine, 

This way and that, in many a wild festoon 

Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs 

With bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro'. lOO 

'* mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 

On the tree-tops a crested peacock^ lit. 

And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, and lean'd 

Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. 

Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom 105 



112 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Coming thro^ heaven like a light that grows 

Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods 

Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made 

Proffer of royal power, ample rule 

Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue no 

Wherewith to embellish state, ^ from many a vale, 

And river-sundered champaign clothed with corn, 

Or laboured mine undrainable of ore. 

Honour,' she said, ^ and homage, tax and toll, 

From many an inland town and haven large, 115 

Mast-throng' d beneath her shadowing citadel 

In glassy bays among her tallest towers.' 

^' O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 

Still she spake on and still she spake of power, 

^ Which in all action is the end of all ; * 120 

Power fitted to the season; wisdom-bred 

And throned of wisdom — from all neighbour crowns 

Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand 

Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon from me, 

From me. Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee, king-born, 125 

A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born. 

Should come most welcome, seeing men, in power 

Only, are likest gods, who have attain'd 

Rest in a happy place and quiet seats 

Above the thunder, with undying bliss 130 

In knowledge of their own supremacy.' 

'^ Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 

She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit 

Out at arm's-length, so much the thought of power 

Flatter'd his spirit; but Pallas where she stood 135 

Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs 



CENONE 113 

O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear 
Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold, 
The while, above, her clear and earnest eye 
Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek 140 
Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply. 

'^ ^ Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control. 

These three alone lead life to sovereign power. 

Yet not for power (power of herself 

Would come uncalFd for) but to live by law, 145 

Acting the law we live by without fear ; 

And, because right is right, to follow right 

Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.^ 

'^ Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 

Again she said : ^ I woo thee not with gifts. 150 

Sequel of guerdon^ could not alter me 

To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am, 

So shalt thou find me fairest. 

Yet indeed. 
If gazing on divinity disrobed 
Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, 155 

Unbiased by self-profit, oh ! rest thee sure, 
That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee, 
So that my vigour wedded to thy blood. 
Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God's 
To push thee forward thro' a life of shocks, 160 
Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow 
Sinew' d with action, and the full-grown will, 
Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, 
Commeasure perfect freedom.' 

' Here she ceas'd. 
And Paris ponder' d, and I cried, ^ Paris, 165 



114 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Give it to Pallas ! ' but he heard me not, 
Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me ! 

^^ mother Ida, many-fountain' d Ida, 

Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 

Idalian^ Aphrodite beautiful, 170 

Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian° wells, 

With rosy slender fingers backward drew 

From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair 

Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat 

And shoulder : from the violets her light foot 175 

Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form 

Between the shadows of the vine-bunches 

Floated the glowing sunlights as she moved. 

'^ Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 

She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, 180 

The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh 

Half-whisper' d in his ear, ^ I promise thee 

The fairest and most loving wife in Greece.' 

She spoke and laugh' d: I shut my sight for fear: 

But when I look'd, Paris had raised his arm, 185 

And I beheld great Here's angry eyes. 

As she withdrew into the golden cloud. 

And I was left alone within the bower; 

And from that time to this I am alone. 

And I shall be alone until I die. 190 

'^ Yet, mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Fairest — why fairest wife ? am I not fair ? 
My love hath told me so a thousand times. 
Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday, 



CENONE 115 

When I past by, a wild and wanton pard,° 195 

Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail 
Crouch'd fawning in the weed. Most loving is she? 
Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms 
Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest 
Close, close to thine in that quick-falling dew 200 

Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains 
Flash in the pools of whirling Simois. 

'^ mother, hear me yet before I die. 

They came, they cut away my tallest pines, 

My tall dark pines, that plumed the craggy ledge 205 

High over the blue gorge, and all between 

The snowy peak and snow-white cataract 

Foster' d the callow eaglet — from beneath 

Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark morn 

The panther's roar came mufHed, while I sat 210 

Low in the valley. Never, never more 

Shall lone GEnone see the mxorning mist 

Sweep thro' them ; never see them overlaid 

With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud. 

Between the loud stream and the trembling stars. 215 

^^ mother, hear me yet before I die. 

I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd folds. 

Among the fragments tumbled from the glens, 

Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her 

The Abominable, ° that uninvited came 220 

Into the fair Peleian banquet-hall. 

And cast the golden fruit upon the board, 

And bred this change; that I might speak my mind, 

And tell her to her face how much I hate 

Her presence, hated both of Gods and men. 225 



116 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

'^ mother, hear me yet before I die. 

Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times, 

In this green valley, under this green hill, 

Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone? 

Seal'd it with kisses? water'd it with tears? 230 

happy tears, and how unlike to these ! 

happy Heaven, how canst thou see my face ? 

happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight? 

death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud, 
There are enough unhappy on this earth; 235 
Pass by the happy souls, that love to live; 

1 pray thee, pass before my light of life. 
And shadow all my soul, that I may die. 
Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, 

Weigh heavy on my eyelids : let me die. 240 

'^ O mother, hear me yet before I die. 

I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts 

Do shape themselves within me, more and more, 

Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear 

Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills, 245 

Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see 

My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother 

Conjectures of the features of her child 

Ere it is born : her child ! — a shudder comes 

Across me : never child be born of me, 250 i 

Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes! ] 

'^ O mother, hear me yet before I die. J 
Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone. 

Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me ; 

Walking the cold and starless road of death 255 , 

Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love i 



ENOCH AEBEJSr 117 

With the Greek woman. ° I will rise and go 
Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth 
Talk with the wild Cassandra^^ for she says 
A fire dances before her, and a sound 260 

Rings ever in her ears of armed men. 
What this may be I know not, but I know 
That, wheresoe'er I am by night and day, 
All earth and air seem only burning fire.'' 



ENOCH ARDEN 

Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm; 
And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands; 
Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf 
In cluster; then a mouldered church; and higher 
A long street climbs to one tall-tower' d mill; 5 
And high in heaven behind it a gray down 
With Danish barrows^ ; and a hazelwood, 
By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes 
Green in a cuplike hollow of the down. 

Here on this beach a hundred years ago, lo 

Three children of three houses, Annie Lee, 
The prettiest little damsel in the port. 
And Philip Ray, the miller's only son. 
And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad 
Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd 15 

Among the waste and lumber of the shore, 
Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets. 
Anchors of rusty fluke, ° and boats updrawn; 
And built their castles of dissolving sand 
To watch them overflowed, or following up 20 



118 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

And flying the white breaker, daily left 
The little footprint daily wash'd away. 

A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff; 
In this the children play'd at keeping house. 
Enoch was host one day, Philip the next, 25 

While Annie still was mistress; but at times 
Enoch would hold possession for a week: 
^^ This is my house and this my little wife.^' 
^^ Mine too/' said Philip, ^^ turn and turn about: '' 
When, if they quarrelled, Enoch stronger made 30 
Was master : then would Philip, his blue eyes 
All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears, 
Shriek out, ^^ I hate you, Enoch," and at this 
The little wife would weep for company, 
And pray them not to quarrel for her sake, 35 

And say she would be little wife to both.° 

But when the dawn of rosy childhood past. 
And the new warmth of life's ascending sun 
Was felt by either, either fixt his heart 
On that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love, 40 
But Philip loved in silence; and the girl 
Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him; 
But she loved Enoch : tho' she knew it not, 
And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set 
A purpose evermore before his eyes, 45 

To hoard all savings to the uttermost. 
To purchase his own boat, and make a home 
For Annie: and so prosper'd that at last 
A luckier or a bolder fisherman, 
A carefuller in peril, did not breathe 50 

For leagues along that breaker-beaten coast 



ENOCH ARDEN 119 

Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a year 

On board a merchantman, and made himself 

Full sailor; and he thrice had pluck' d a life 

From the dread sweep of the down-streaming seas : ^^ 

And all men look'd upon him favorably: 

And ere he touched his one-and-tw^entieth May 

He purchased his own boat, and made a home 

For Annie, neat and nestlike, halfway up 

The narrow street that clamber' d toward the mill. 60 

Then, on a golden autumn eventide, 
The younger people making holiday. 
With bag and sack and basket, great and small, 
Went nutting to the hazels. Philip stay'd 
(His father lying sick and needing him) 65 

An hour behind; but as he climb'd the hill, 
Just where the prone edge of the wood began 
To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair, 
Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand. 
His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face 70 

All-kindled by a still and sacred fire. 
That burn'd as on an altar. Philip look'd, 
And in their eyes and faces read his doom ; 
Then, as their faces drew together, groan'd, 
And slipt aside, and like a wounded life 75 

Crept down into the hollows of the wood; 
There, while the rest were loud in merrymaking. 
Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and past 
Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart. 

So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells, 80 
And merrily ran the years, seven happy years. 
Seven happy years of health and competence, 
And mutual love and honorable toil; 



120 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

With children; first a daughter. In him woke^ 

With his first babe's first cry, the noble wish 85 

To save all earnings to the uttermost, 

And give his child a better bringing-up 

Than his had been, or hers; a wish renew'd, 

When two years after came a boy to be 

The rosy idol of her solitudes, 90 

While Enoch w^as abroad on wrathful seas, 

Or often journeying landward; for in truth 

Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's ocean-spoil 

In ocean-smelling osier, ° and his face, 

Rough-redden' d with a thousand winter gales, 95 

Not only to the market-cross were known, 

But in the leafy lanes behind the down, 

Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp° 

And peacock-yewtree^ of the lonely Hall, 

Whose Friday fare was Enoch's ministering. lOO 

Then came a change, as all things human change. 
Ten miles to northward of the narrow port 
Open'd a larger haven: thither used 
Enoch at times to go by land or sea; 
And once when there, and clambering on a mast 105 
In harbor, by mischance he slipt and fell : 
A limb was broken when they lifted him ; 
And while he lay recovering there, his wife 
Bore him another son, a sickly one : 
Another hand crept too across his trade no 

Taking her bread and theirs : and on him fell, 
Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing man. 
Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom. 
He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the nighty 
To see his children leading evermore 115 



ENOCH ARDEN 121 

Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth, 

And her he loved, a beggar: then he pray VI 

^' Save them from this, whatever comes to me/' 

And while he pravM, the master of that ship 

Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance, 120 

Came, for he knew the man and valued him, 

Reporting of his vessel China-bound, 

And wanting yet a boatswain. Would he go ? 

There yet were many weeks before she sail'd, 

Saird from this port. Would Enoch have the place ? 125 

And Enoch all at once assented to it. 

Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer. 

So now that shadow of mischance appear' d 
No graver than as w^hen some little cloud 
Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun, 130 

And isles a light in the offing : yet the wife — 
When he was gone — the children — what to do ? 
Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his plans; 
To sell the boat — and yet he loved her well — 
How many a rough sea had he weather' d in her ! 135 
He knew her, as a horseman knows his horse — 
And yet to sell her — then with what she brought 
Buy goods and stores — set Annie forth in trade 
With all that seamen needed or their wives — 
So might she keep the house while he was gone. i40 
Should he not trade himself out yonder ? go 
This voyage more than once ? yea, twice or thrice — 
As oft as needed — last, returning rich, 
Become the master of a larger craft. 
With fuller profits lead an easier life, 145 

Have all his pretty young ones educated, 
And pass his days in peace among his own. 



122 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Thus Enoch in his heart determined all : 
Then moving homeward came on Annie pale, 
Nursing the sicldy babe, her latest-born. 150 

Forward she started with a happy cry, 
And laid the feeble infant in his arms; 
Whom Enoch took, and handled all his limbs, 
Appraised his weight and fondled father-like, 
But had no heart to break his purposes io5 

To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke. 

Then first since Enoch's golden ring had girt 
Her finger, Annie fought against his will : 
Yet not with brawling opposition she, 
But manifold entreaties, many a tear, 160 

Many a sad kiss by day by night renew'd 
(Sure that all evil would come out of it) 
Besought him, supplicating, if he cared 
For her or his dear children, not to go. 
He not for his own self caring but her, 165 

Her and her children, let her plead in vain; 
So grieving held his will, and bore it thro'. 

For Enoch parted with his old sea-friend. 
Bought Annie goods and stores, and set his hand 
To fit their little streetward sitting-room 170 

With shelf and corner for the goods and stores. 
So all day long till Enoch's last at home, 
Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe. 
Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to hear 
Her own death-scaffold raising, shrill'd and rang, 175 
Till this was ended, and his careful hand, — 
The space was narrow, — having order'd all 
Almost as neat and close as Nature packs 



ENOCH ARDEN 123 

Her blossom or her seedling, paused; and he. 

Who needs would work for Annie to the last, 180 

Ascending tired; heavily slept till morn. 

And Enoch faced this morning of farewell 
Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's fears, 
Save as his Annie's, were a laughter to him. 
Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man 185 

Bow'd himself down, and in that mystery 
Where God-in-man is one with man-in-God, 
Pray'd for a blessing on his wife and babes, 
Whatever came to him : and then he said 
^' Annie, this voyage by the grace of God 190 

Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. 
Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me, 
For I'll be back, my girl, before you know it.^' 
Then lightly rocking baby's cradle, '^ and he. 
This pretty, puny, weakly little one, — 195 

Nay — for I love him all the better for it — 
God bless him, he shall sit upon my knees 
And I will tell him tales of foreign parts, 
And make him merry, when I come home again. 
Come, Annie, come, cheer up before I go.'' 200 

Him running on thus hopefully she heard. 
And almost hoped herself; but when he turn'd 
The current of his talk to graver things. 
In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing 
On providence and trust in Heaven, she heard, 205 
Heard and not heard him; as the village girl. 
Who sets her pitcher underneath the spring. 
Musing on him that used to fill it for her. 
Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow. 



124 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

At length she spoke, ^^ Enoch, you are wise; 210 
And yet for all your wisdom well know I 
That I shall look upon your face no more/' 

'^ Well then/^ said Enoch, ^^I shall look on yours. ° 
Annie, the ship I sail in passes here 
(He named the day), get you a seaman's glass, 215 

Spy out my face, and laugh at all your fears/' 

But when the last of those last moments came, 
'' Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted, 
Look to the babes, and till I come again. 
Keep everything shipshape, for I must go. 220 

And fear no more for me ; or if you fear 
Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds. 
Is He not yonder in those uttermost 
Parts of the morning ? if I flee to these 
Can I go from him ? and the sea is His, 225 

The sea is His: He made it." 

Enoch rose. 
Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife. 
And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little ones; 
But for the third, the sickly one, who slept 
After a night of feverous wakefulness, 230 

When Annie would have raised him Enoch said, 
^^ Wake him not; let him sleep; how should the child 
Remember this? " and kiss'd him in his cot. 
But Annie from her baby's forehead dipt 
A tiny curl, and gave it : this he kept 235 

Thro' all his future; but now hastily caught 
His bundle, waved his hand, and went his way. 

She, when the day, that Enoch mention'd, came, 
Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain: perhaps 



ENOCH ARDEN 125 

She could not fix the glass to suit her eye; 240 

Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous; 
She saw him not : and while he stood on deck 
Waving; the moment and the vessel past. 

Ev^n to the last dip of the vanishing sail 
She watched it, and departed weeping for him; 245 
Then, tho^ she mourn' d his absence as his grave, 
Set her sad will no less to chime with his. 
But throve not in her trade, not being bred 
To barter, nor compensating the want 
By shrewdness, neither capable of lies, 250 

Nor asking overmuch and taking less. 
And still foreboding ^' what would Enoch say? " 
For more than once, in days of difficulty 
And pressure, had she sold her wares for less 
Than what she gave in buying what she sold : 255 
She faird and saddenM knowing it; and thus, 
Expectant of that news which never came, 
Gained for her own a scanty sustenance, 
And lived a life of silent melancholy. 

Now the third child was sickly-born and grew 260 
Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it 
With all a mother's care: nevertheless. 
Whether her business often call'd her from it, 
Or thro' the want of what it needed most. 
Or means to pay the voice who best could tell 265 
What most it needed — howsoe'er it was. 
After a lingering, — ere she was aware, — 
Like the caged bird escaping suddenly. 
The little innocent soul flitted away. 



126 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

In that same week when Annie buried it, 270 

Philip^s true heart, which hunger'd for her peace 
(Since Enoch left he had not look'd upon her), 
Smote him, as having kept aloof so long. 
^' Surely,'^ said Phihp, '^ I may see her now, 
May be some little comfort; ^^ therefore went, 275 
Past thro' the solitary room in front. 
Paused for a moment at an inner door. 
Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening, 
Enter'd; but Annie, seated with her grief, 
Fresh from the burial of her little one, 280 

Cared not to look on any human face. 
But turn'd her own toward the wall and wept. 
Then Philip standing up said falteringly, 
^' Annie, I came to ask a favor of you.'' 

He spoke; the passion in her moan'd reply, 285 
'^ Favor from one so sad and so forlorn 
As I am ! " half abash'd him; yet unask'd, 
His bashfulness and tenderness at war. 
He set himself beside her, saying to her : 

^^ I came to speak to you of what he wish'd, 290 
Enoch, your husband : I have ever said 
You chose the best among us — a strong man: 
For where he fixt his heart he set his hand 
To do the thing he will'd, and bore it thro'. 
And wherefore did he go this weary way, 295 

And leave you lonely ? not to see the world — 
For pleasure? — nay, but for the wherewithal 
To give his babes a better bringing-up 
Than his had been, or yours: that was his wish. 
And if he come again, vext will he be 300 



ENOCH ARDEN 127 

To find the precious morning hours were lost. 

And it would vex him even in his grave, 

If he could know his babes were running wild 

Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, now — 

Have we not known each other all our lives ? — 305 

I do beseech you by the love you bear 

Him and his children not to say me nay — 

For, if you will, when Enoch comes again, 

Why then he shall repay me — if you will, 

Annie — for I am rich and well-to-do. 3io 

Now let me put the boy and girl to school : 

This is the favor that I came to ask.'^ 

Then Annie with her brows against the wall 
Answered, ^^ I cannot look you in the face; 
I seem so foolish and so broken down. 315 

When you came in my sorrow broke me down; 
And now I think your kindness breaks me down; 
But Enoch lives; that is borne in on me; 
He will repay you: money can be repaid; 
Not kindness such as yours. ^^ 

And Philip ask'd 320 
^' Then you will let me, Annie? '' 

There she turnM, 
She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes upon him, 
And dwelt a moment on his kindly face. 
Then calling down a blessing on his head 
Caught at his hand, and wrung it passionately, 325 

And past into the little garth° beyond. 
So lifted up in spirit he moved away. 

Then Philip put the boy and girl to school. 
And bought them needful books, and every way, 



128 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Like one who does his duty by his own, 330 

Made himself theirs; and tho' for Annie's sake, 

Fearing the lazy gossip of the port. 

He oft denied his heart his dearest wish. 

And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent 

Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit, 335 

The late and early roses from his wall. 

Or conies° from the dowm, and now and then, 

With some pretext of fineness in the meal 

To save the offence of charitable, flour 

From his tall mill that whistled on the w^aste. 340 

But Philip did not fathom Annie's mind: 
Scarce could the w^oman when he came upon her, 
Out of full heart and boundless gratitude 
Light on a broken word to thank him with. 
But Philip was her children's all-in-all; 345 

From distant corners of the street they ran 
To greet his hearty welcome heartily; 
Lords of his house and of his mill were they; 
Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs 
Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd with him, 350 
And caird him Father Philip. Philip gain'd 
As Enoch lost; for Enoch seem'd to them 
Uncertain as a vision or a dream. 
Faint as a figure seen in early dawn 
Down at the far end of an avenue, 455 

Going we know not where : and so ten years, 
Since Enoch left his hearth and native land, 
Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came. 

It chanced one evening Annie's children long'd 
To go with others nutting to the wood, 360 



ENOCH ARDEN 129 

And Annie would go with them; then they begg'd 
For Father Philip (as they caird him) too: 
Him, like the working bee in blossom-dust, 
Blanch'd with his mill, the}^ found; and saying to him, 
''Come with us, Father Philip,'' he denied; 365 

But when the children pluck' d at him to go. 
He laugh' d, and yielded readily to their wish, 
For was not Annie with them ? and they went. 

But after scaling half the weary down, 
Just where the prone edge of the wood began° 370 

To feather toward the hollow, all her force 
Fail'd her; and sighing, '' Let me rest,^' she said: 
So Philip rested with her well-content ; 
While all the younger ones with jubilant cries 
Broke from their elders, and tumultuously 375 

Down thro' the w^hitening hazels made a plunge 
To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or broke 
The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away 
Their tawny clusters, crying to each other 
And calling, here and there, about the wood. 380 

But Philip sitting at her side forgot 
Her presence, and remember' d one dark hour 
Here in this wood, when like a wounded life 
He crept into the shadow : at last he said. 
Lifting his honest forehead, '' Listen, Annie, 385 

How merry they are down yonder in the wood. 
Tired, Annie? " for she did not speak a word. 
'' Tired? " but her face had fall'n upon her hands; 
At which, as with a kind of anger in him, 
'' The ship was lost," he said, '' the ship was lost ! 390 
No more of that ! why should you kiU yourself 



130 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

And make them orphans quite? '' And Annie said 
'^ I thought not of it : but — I know not why — 
Their voices make me feel so solitary." 

Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke. 395 

'^ Annie, there is a thing upon my mind, 
And it has been upon my mind so long, 
That tho' I know not when it first came there, 
I know that it will out at last. Oh, Annie, 
It is beyond all hope, against all chance, 400 

That he who left you ten long years ago 
Should still be living ; well then — let me speak : 
I grieve to see you poor and wanting help : 
I cannot help you as I wish to do 

Unless — they say that women are so quick — 405 

Perhaps you know what I would have you know — 
I wish you for my wife. I fain would prove 
A father to your children : I do think 
They love me as a father : I am sure 
That I love them as if they were mine own; 4io 

And I believe, if you were fast my wife. 
That after all these sad uncertain years. 
We might be still as happy as God grants 
To any of His creatures. Think upon it : 
For I am well-to-do — no kin, no care, 415 

No burthen, save my care for you and yours : 
And we have known each other all our lives. 
And I have loved you longer than you know.'' 

Then answer'd Annie; tenderly she spoke: 
^^ You have been as God's good angel in our house. 420 
God bless you for it, God reward you for it, 
Philip, with something happier than myself. 
Can one love twice ? can you be ever loved 






ENOCH ARDEN 131 

As Enoch was? what is it that you ask? ^' 

^' I am content/^ he answer'd^ ^^ to be loved 425 

A little after Enoch/^ '' Oh/^ she cried, 

Scared as it were, ^^ dear Philip, wait a while: 

If Enoch comes — but Enoch will not come — 

Yet wait a year, a year is not so long : 

Surely I shall be wiser in a year : 430 

Oh, wait a little ! '^ Philip sadly said, 

'^ Annie, as I have waited all my life 

I well may w^ait a little/^ ^^ Nay,'' she cried, 

^^ I am bound : you have my promise — in a year; 

Will you not bide your year as I bide mine? '' 435 

And Philip answered, ^^ I will bide my year/' 

Here both were mute, till Philip glancing up 
Beheld the dead flame of the fallen clay 
Pass from the Danish barrow overhead; 
Then, fearing night and chill for Annie, rose, 440 

And sent his voice beneath him thro' the wood. 
Up came the children laden wdth their spoil; 
Then all descended to the port, and there 
At Annie's door he paused and gave his hand, 
Saying gently, ^^ Annie, when I spoke to you, 445 

That was your hour of weakness. I was wrong. 
I am alwaA^s bound to you, but you are free." 
Then Annie weeping answered, ^^ I am bound." 

She spoke ; and in one moment as it were. 
While yet she went about her household ways, 450 

Ev'n as she dwelt upon his latest words. 
That he had loved her longer than she knew. 
That autumn into autumn flash' d again. 
And there he stood once more before her face. 
Claiming her promise. ^' Is it a year ? " she ask'd. 455 



132 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

^^ Yes, if the nuts/^ he said, ^^ be ripe again: 

Come out and see/^ But she — she put him off — 

So much to look to — such a change — a month — 

Give her a month — she knew that she was bound — 

A month — no more. Then Phihp with his eyes 460 

Full of that lifelong hunger, and his voice 

Shaking a little like a drunkard's hand, 

^^Take your own time, Annie, take your own time/' 

And Annie could have wept for pity of him ; 

And yet she held him on delayingly 465 

With many a scarce-believable excuse, 

Trying his truth and his long-sufferance, 

Till half another year had slipped away. 

By this the lazy gossips of the port. 
Abhorrent of a calculation crost, 470 

Began to chafe as at a personal wrong. 
Some thought that Philip did but trifle with her; 
Some that she but held off to draw him on; 
And others laughed at her and Philip too. 
As simple folk that knew not their own minds; 475 

And one in whom all evil fancies clung 
Like serpent's eggs together, laughingly 
Would hint at worse in either. Her own son 
Was silent, tho' he often look'd his wish; 
But evermore the daughter prest upon her 480 

To wed the man so dear to all of them 
And lift the household out of poverty; 
And Philip's rosy face contracting grew 
Careworn and wan; and all these things fell on him 
Sharp as reproach. 

At last one night it chanced 485 
That Annie could not sleep, but earnestly J 



ENOCH ARDEJSr 133 

Praj^'d for a sign, " my Enoch, is he gone? '^ 
Then compass' d round by the bUnd wall of night 
Brook' d not the expectant terror of her heart, 
Started from bed, and struck herself a light, 490 

Then desperately seized the holy Book, 
Suddenly set it wide to find a sign. 
Suddenly put her finger on the text, 
'^ Under the palm-tree.^'' That was nothing to her: 
No meaning there : she closed the Book and slept : 495 
When lo ! her Enoch sitting on a height. 
Under a palm-tree, over him the Sun : 
^^ He is gone,'' she thought, ^^ he is happy, he is singing 
Hosanna in the highest : yonder shines 
The Sun of Righteousness, and these be palms 500 

Whereof the happy people strowing cried 
^ Hosanna in the highest ! ' " Here she woke, 
Resolved, sent for him and said wildly to him, 
^^ There is no reason why we should not wed." 
'^ Then for God's sake," he answer' d, ^^ both our 
sakes, 505 

So you will wed me, let it be at once." 

So these were wed and merrily rang the bells, 
Merrily rang the bells and they were wed. 
But never merrily beat Annie's heart. 
A footstep seem'd to fall beside her path, 5io 

She knew not whence ; a whisper on her ear. 
She knew not what; nor loved she to be left 
Alone at home, nor ventured out alone. 
What ail'd her then, that ere she enter' d, often. 
Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch, 515 

Fearing to enter : Philip thought he knew : 
Such doubts and fears were common to her state, 



134 ENGLISH XARRATIVE POEMS 

Being with child : but when her child was born, 

Then her new child was as herself renew'd, 

Then the new mother came about her heart, 520 

Then her good Philip was her all-in-all. 

And that mysterious instinct wholly died. 

And where was Enoch ? prosperously saiFd 
The ship Good Fortune, tho' at setting forth 
The Biscay,^ roughly ridging eastward, shook 525 
And almost overwhelm'd her. yet unvext 
She slipt across the summer of the world,° 
Then after a long tumble about the Cape 
And frequent interchange of foul and fair, 
She passing thro' the summer world again, 530 

The breath of heaven came continually 
And sent her sweetly by the golden isles. 
Till silent in her oriental haven. 

There Enoch traded for himself, and bought 
Quaint monsters for the market of those times, 535 
A gilded dragon, also, for the babes. 

Less lucky her home-voyage: at first indeed 
Thro' many a fair sea-circle, day by day. 
Scarce-rocking her full-busted figure-head 
Stared o'er the ripple feathering from her bows: 540 
Then follow'd calms, and then winds variable, 
Then baffling, a long course of them ; and last 
Storm, such as drove her under moonless heavens 
Till hard upon the cry of " breakers '' came 
The crash of ruin, and the loss of all 545 

But Enoch and two others. Half the night, 
Buoy'd upon floating tackle and broken spars, 



ENOCH AEDEN 135 

These drifted, stranding on an isle at morn 
Rich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea. 

No want was there of human sustenance, 550 

Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourishing roots; 
Nor save for pity was it hard to take 
The helpless life so wild that it was tame. 
There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge 
They built, and thatch' d with leaves of palm, a hut, 555 
Half hut, half native cavern. So the three, 
Set in this Eden of all plenteousness. 
Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content. 

For one, the youngest, hardly more than boy, 
Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and wreck, 560 

Lay lingering out a five-years' cleath-in-life. 
They could not leave him. After he was gone, 
The two remaining found a fallen stem°; 
And Enoch's comrade, careless of himself, 
Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell 565 

Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone. 
In those two deaths he read God's warning, ^^ Wait.'' 

The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns 
And winding glades high up like ways to Heaven, • 
The slender coco's drooping crown of plumes, 570 

The lightning flash of insect and of bird. 
The lustre of the long convolvuluses^ 
That coil'd around the stately stems, and ran 
Ev'n to the limit of the land, the glows 
And glories of the broad belt of the world, ° 575 

All these he saw; but what he fain had seen 
He could not see, the kindly human face, 



136 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard 

The myriad shriek of wheehng ocean-fowl, 

The league-long roller thundering on the reef, 580 

The moving whisper of huge trees that branched 

And blossom'd in the zenith, or the sweep 

Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave. 

As down the shore he ranged, or all day long 

Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, 585 

A shipwreckM sailor, waiting for a sail: 

No sail from day to day, but every day 

The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts 

Among the palms and ferns and precipices; 

The blaze upon the waters to the east : 590 

The blaze upon his island overhead; 

The blaze upon the w^aters to the west; 

Then the great stars that globed themselves in 

Heaven, 
The hollower-bellowing ocean, and again 
The scarlet shafts of sunrise — but no sail. 595 

There often as he watch' d or seem'd to watch, 
So still, the golden lizard on him paused, 
A phantom made of many phantoms moved 
Before him, haunting him, or he himself 
Moved haunting people, things and places, known 600 
Far in a darker isle beyond the line; 
The babes, their babble, Annie, the small house, 
The climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes. 
The peacock-yewtree and the lonely Hall, 
The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill 605 

November dawns and dewy-glooming downs. 
The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves, 
And the low moan of leaden-color' d seas. 



ENOCH ARDEN 137 

Once likewise, in the ringing of his ears, 
Tho' faintly, merrily — far and far away — 6io 

He heard the pealing of his parish bells; 
Then, tho^ he knew not wherefore, started up 
Shuddering, and when the beauteous hateful isle 
Returned upon him, had not his poor heart 
Spoken with That, which being everywhere 615 

Lets none who speaks with Him seem all alone, 
Surely the man had died of solitude. 

Thus over Enoch^s early-silvering head 
The sunny and rainy seasons came and went 
Year after year. His hopes to see his own, 620 

And pace the sacred old familiar fields, 
Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely doom 
Came suddenly to an end. Another ship 
(She wanted water) blown by baffling w^inds, 
Like the Good Fortune, from her destined course, 625 
Stay'd by this isle, not knowing w^here she lay: 
For since the mate had seen at early dawn 
Across a break on the mist-wreathen isle 
The silent water slipping from the hills. 
They sent a crew that landing burst away 630 

In search of stream or fount, and fiU'd the shores 
With clamor. Downward from his mountain gorge° 
Stept the long-hair'd, long-bearded solitary, 
Brown, looking hardly human, strangely clad, 
Muttering and mumbling, idiot-like it seem'd, 635 
With inarticulate rage, and making signs 
They knew not what : and yet he led the way 
To where the rivulets of sweet water ran; 
And ever as he mingled with the crew. 
And heard them talking, his long-bounden tongue 640 



138 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Was loosenM, till he made them understand; 

Whom, when their casks were fill'd they took aboard 

And there the tale he utter' d brokenly, 

Scarce-credited at first but more and more, 

Amazed and melted all who listened to it; 645 

And clothes they gave him and free passage home; 

But oft he work'd among the rest and shook 

His isolation from him. None of these 

Came from his county, or could answer him. 

If question'd, aught of what he cared to know. 650 

And dull the voyage was with long delays, 

The vessel scarce sea-worthy; but evermore 

His fancy fled before the lazy wind 

Returning, till beneath a clouded moon 

He like a lover down thro' all his blood 655 

Drew in the dewy meadowy morning-breath 

Of England, blown across her ghostly wall: 

And that same morning officers and men 

Levied a kindly tax upon themselves, 

Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it : 660 

Then moving up the coast they landed him, 

Ev'n in that harbor whence he sail'd before. 

There Enoch spoke no word to any one, 
But homeward — home — what home ? had he a home ? 
His home, he walk'd. Bright was that afternoon, 665 
Sunny but chill ; till drawn thro' either chasm. 
Where either haven open'd on the deeps, 
Roird a sea-haze and whelm'd the world in gray; 
Cut off the length of highway on before, 
And left but narrow breadth to left and right 670 

Of wither'd holt° or tilth° or pasturage. 
On the nigh-naked tree the robin piped 



I 



ENOCH ARDEN 139 

Disconsolate, and thro^ the dripping haze 
The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it down : 
Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom; 675 

Last; as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted Hght 
Flared on him, and he came upon the place. 

Then down the long street having slowly stolen, 
His heart foreshadowing all calamity, 
His eyes upon the stones, he reached the home 680 
Where Annie lived and loved him, and his babes 
In those far-off seven happy years were born; 
But finding neither light nor murmur there 
(A bill of sale gleam' d thro' the drizzle) crept 
Still downward thinking, ^' dead, or dead to me ! '^ 685 

Down to the pool and narrow wharf he went, 
Seeking a tavern which of old he knew, 
A front of timber-crost antiquity. 
So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old. 
He thought it must have gone; but he was gone 690 
Who kept it ; and his widow, Miriam Lane, 
With daily-dwindling profits held the house; 
A haunt of brawling seamen once, but now 
Stiller, with yet a bed for wandering men. 
There Enoch rested silent many days. 695 

But Miriam Lane was good and garrulous, 
Nor let him be, but often breaking in. 
Told him, with other annals of the port. 
Not knowing — Enoch was so brown, so bow'd. 
So broken — all the story of his house. 700 

His baby's death, her growing poverty. 
How Philip put her little ones to school. 



140 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

And kept them in it^ his long wooing her, 

Her slow consent, and marriage, and the birth 

Of Philip's child: and o^er his countenance 705 

No shadow past, nor motion : any one. 

Regarding, well had deem'd he felt the tale 

Less than the teller; only when she closed, 

^' Enoch, poor man, was cast away and lost,^' 

He, shaking his gray head pathetically, 7io 

Repeated muttering, ^^ cast away and lost; '^ 

Again in deeper inward whispers, ^^ lost ! '' 

But Enoch yearned to see her face again; 
^^If I might look on her sweet face again 
And know that she is happy/' So the thought 715 
Haunted and harassed him, and drove him forth, 
At evening when the dull November day 
Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. 
There he sat down gazing on all below; 
There did a thousand memories roll upon him, 720 
Unspeakable for sadness. By and by 
The ruddy square of comfortable light. 
Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house, 
Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures 
The bird of passage, till he madly strikes 725 

Against it, and beats out his weary life. 

For PhiUp's dwelling fronted on the street. 
The latest^ house to landward ; but behind. 
With one small gate that open'd on the waste, 
Flourish'd a little garden square and wall'd: 730 

And in it throve an ancient evergreen, 
A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk 
Of shingle, ° and a walk divided it: 



ENOCH ARDEN 141 

But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and stole 
Up by the wall^ behind the yew; and thence 735 

That which he better might have shunn'd, if griefs 
Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. 

For cups and silver on the burnish' d board 
Sparkled and shone; so genial was the hearth: 
And on the right hand of the hearth he saw 740 

Philip, the sHghted suitor of old times, 
Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees; 
And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, 
A later but a loftier Annie Lee, 

Fair-hair' d and tall, and from her lifted hand 745 

Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring 
To tempt the babe, who reared his creasy ° arms. 
Caught at, and ever miss'd it, and they laugh'd: 
And on the left hand of the hearth he saw 
The mother glancing often toward her babe, 750 

But turning now and then to speak with him, 
Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong, 
And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled. 

Now when the dead man come to life beheld 
His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe 755 

Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee. 
And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness, 
And his own children tall and beautiful. 
And him, that other, reigning in his place. 
Lord of his rights and of his children's love, — 760 
Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him all. 
Because things seen are mightier than things heard, 
Stagger'd and shook, holding the branch, and fear'd 
To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry, 



142 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Which in one moment, like the blast of doom, 765 

Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth. 

He therefore turning softly like a thief, 
Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot, 
And feeling all along the garden wall, 
Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found, 770 
Crept to the gate, and opened it, and closed, 
As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door. 
Behind him, and came out upon the waste. 

And there he would have knelt, but that his knees 
Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug 775 

His fingers into the wet earth, and pray'd. 

^^Too hard to bear ! why did they take me thence? 
O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou 
That didst uphold me on my lonely isle. 
Uphold me. Father, in my loneliness 780 

A little longer ! aid me, give me strength 
Not to tell her, never to let her know. 
Help me not to break in upon her peace. 
My children too ! must I not speak to these ? 
They know me not. I should betray myself. 785 

Never: no father's kiss for me — the girl 
So like her mother, and the boy, my son." 

There speech and thought and nature fail'd a little 
And he lay tranced ; but when he rose and paced 
Back toward his solitary home again, 790 

All down the long and narrow street he went 
Beating it in upon his weary brain. 
As tho' it were the burthen of a song, 
'^Not to tell her, never to let her know." 



ENOCH ARDEN 143 

He was not all unhappy. His resolve 795 

Upbore him, and firm faith, and evermore 
Prayer from a living source within the will, 
And beating up thro' all the bitter world, 
Like fountains of sweet water in the sea, 
Kept him a living soul. '' This miller's wife," 800 

He said to Miriam, '' that you spoke about. 
Has she no fear that her first husband lives? " 
^^Ay, ay, poor soul," said Miriam, '' fear enow! 
If you o«,^d tell her you had seen him dead, 
Why, that would be her comfort;" and he thought 805 
^^ After the Lord has call'd me she shall know, 
I wait His time; " and Enoch set himself. 
Scorning an alms, to work whereby to live. 
Almost to all things could he turn his hand. 
Cooper he was and carpenter, and wrought 8io 

To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or help'd 
At lading and unlading the tall barks. 
That brought the stinted commerce of those days; 
Thus earn'd a scanty living for himself: 
Yet since he did but labor for himself, 815 

Work without hope, there was not life in it 
Whereby the man could live; and as the year 
Roird itself round again to meet the day 
When Enoch had returned, a languor came 
Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually 820 

Weakening the man, till he could do no more, 
But kept the house, his chair, and last his bed. 
And Enoch bore his weakness cheerfully. 
For sure no giadlier does the stranded wreck 
See thro' the gray skirts of a lifting squall 825 

The boat that bears the hope of life approach 
To save the life despair' d of, than he saw 
Death dawning on him, and the close of all. 



144 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

For thro' that dawning gleam'd a kindlier hope 
On Enoch thinking, ^' after I am gone, 830 

Then may she learn I lov'd her to the last." 
He caird aloud for Miriam Lane and said, 
'' Woman, I have a secret — only swear, 
Before I tell you — swear upon the book 
Not to reveal it, till you see me dead." 835 

^^Dead," clamor'd the good woman, ^^ hear him talk; 
I warrant, man, that we shall bring you round." 
^' Swear," added Enoch sternly, ^^on the book.** 
And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam swore. 
Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon her, 840 

^^ Did you know Enoch Arden of this town? " 
^^Know him?" she said, ^^I knew him far away. 
Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the street; 
Held his head high, and cared for no man, he." 
Slowly and sadly Enoch answered her: 845 

'^His head is low, and no man cares for him. 
I think I have not three days more to live; 
I am the man." At which the woman gave 
A half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry. 
^^ You Arden, you ! nay, — sure he was a foot 850 

Higher than you be." Enoch said again, 
^'My God has bow'd me down to what I am; 
My grief and solitude have broken me; 
Nevertheless, know you that I am he 
Who married — but that name has twice been 

changed — 855 

I married her who married Philip Ray. 
Sit, listen." Then he told her of his voyage, 
His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back, 
His gazing in on Annie, his resolve. 
And how he kept it. As the woman heard, 860 ^ 



ENOCH ARDEJSr 145 

Fast flowed the current of her easy tears, 

While in her heart she yearn' cl incessantly 

To rush abroad all round the little haven, 

Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes; 

But awed and promise-bounden she forbore, 865 

Saying only, ^^See your bairns before you go ! 

Eh, let me fetch ^em, Arden, ^^ and arose 

Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung 

A moment on her words, but then replied : 

"Woman, disturb me not now at the last, 870 
But let me hold my purpose till I die. 
Sit down again; mark me and understand, 
While I have power to speak. I charge you now 
When you shall see her, tell her that I died 
Blessing her, praying for her, loving her; 875 

Save for the bar between us, loving her 
As when she lay her head beside my own. 
And tell my daughter Annie, whom I saw 
So like her mother, that my latest breath 
Was spent in blessing her and praying for her. 880 
And tell my son that I died blessing him. 
And say to Philip that I blest him too ; 
He never meant us any thing but good. 
But if my children care to see me dead. 
Who hardly knew me living, let them come, 885 
I am their father; but she must not come. 
For my dead face would vex her after-life. 
And now there is but one of all my blood. 
Who will embrace me in the world-to-be : 
This hair is his : she cut it off and gave it, 890 

And I have borne it with me all these years, 
And thought to bear it with me to my grave; 



146 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

But now my mind is changed, for I shall see him, 
My babe in bliss : wherefore when I am gone, 
Take, give her this, for it may comfort her: 895 

It will moreover be a token to her, 
That I am he/' 

He ceased; and lliriam Lane 
Made such a voluble answer promising all, 
That once again he roll'd his eyes upon her 
Repeating all he wish'd, and once again 900 

She promised. 

Then the third night after this. 
While Enoch slumber'd motionless and pale. 
And Miriam watch'd and dozed at intervals, 
There came so loud a calling of the sea, 
That all the houses in the haven rang. 905 

He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad. 
Crying with a loud voice ^^ A sail ! a sail ! 
I am saved; '^ and so fell back and spoke no more. 

So past the strong heroic soul away. 
And when they buried him the little port 9io 

Had seldom seen a costlier funeral. 



THE REVENGE 
A Ballad of the Fleet 



At Flores in the Azores^ Sir Richard Grenville lay, 
And a pinnace like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far 
awav : 



THE REVENGE 147 

' Spanish ships of war at sea ! we have sighted fifty- 
three ! ' 

Then sware Lord Thomas Howard^ : ^ Tore God I am 
no coward; 

But I cannot meet them here^ for my ships are out of 
gear^ 5 

And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow 
quick. 

We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty- 
three ? ' 

II 

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville : ' I know you are no 

coward ; 
You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. 
But IVe ninety men and more that are lying sick 

ashore. lo 

I should count myself the coward if I left them, my 

Lord Howard, 
To these Inquisition^ dogs and the devildoms of Spain.' 

Ill 

So Lord Howard passed away with five ships of war that 

day, 
Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer 

heaven ; 
But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the 

land 15 

Very carefully and slow, 
Men of Bideford° in Devon, 
And we laid them on the ballast down below; 
For we brought them all aboard, 



148 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

And they blest him in their pain, that they were not 
left to Spain, 20 

To the thumbscrew^ and the stake° for the glory of the 
Lord. 

IV 

He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to 

fight / 
And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came 

in sight, 
With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather 

bow. 
' Shall we fight or shall we fly ? 25 

Good Sir Richard, tell us now, 
For to fight is but to die ! 

There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set.' 
x\nd Sir Richard said again, ^ We be all good English 

men. 
Let us bang these dogs of Seville, ° the children of the 

devil, 30 

For I never turn'd my back upon Don^ or devil yet.' 



Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a 

hurrah, and so 
The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe, 
With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick 

below ; 
For half of her fleet to the right and half to the left 

were seen, "So 

And the little Revenge ran on thro' the long sea-lane 

between. 



( 



THE REVENGE 149 



YI 



Thousands of their soldiers looked down from their 
decks and laughs, 

Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little 
craft 

Running on and on, till delay'd 

By their mountain-like San Philip that; of fifteen hun- 
dred tons, 40 

And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning 
tiers of guns, 

Took the breath from our sails, and we stayed. 

VII 

And w^hile now the great San Philip hung above us like 

a cloud 
Whence the thunderbolt will fall 

Long and loud, 45 

Four galleons^ drew away 
From the Spanish fleet that day, 
And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard 

lay, 
And the battle-thunder broke from them all. 



VIII 

But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself 
and went 50 

Having that within her womb that had left her ill 
content ; 

And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us 
hand to hand, 



150 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

For a dozen times they came with their pikes and 

musqueteers, 
And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes 

his ears 
When he leaps from the water to the land. 55 

IX 

And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over 

the summer sea, 
But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and 

the fifty-three. 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built 

galleons came, 
Ship after ship, the whole night long^ with her battle- 
thunder and flame; 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with 

her dead and her shame. 60 

For some were sunk and man}^ were shatter'd, and so 

could fight us no more — ■ 
God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world 

before ? 

X 

For he said, ^ Fight on ! fight on ! * 

Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck ; 

And it chanced that, when half of the short summer 

night was gone, 65 

With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck, 
But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly 

dead, 
And himself he was wounded again in the side and the 

head, 
And he said ' Fight on ! fight on ! ' 



THE REVENGE 151 



XI 

And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far 

over the summer sea, 70 

And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all 

in a ring ; 
But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd that 

we still could sting, 
So they watch' d what the end would be. 
And we had not fought them in vain. 
But in perilous plight were we, 75 

Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, 
And half of the rest of us maim'd for life 
In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate 

strife ; 
And the sick men down in the hold were most of them 

stark and cold. 
And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder 

was all of it spent ; so 

And the masts and the rigging were lying over the 

side ; 
But Sir Richard cried in his English pride, 
^ We have fought such a fight for a day and a night 
As may never be fought again ! 

We have won great glory, my men ! 85 

And a day less or more 
At sea or ashore, 
We die — does it matter when ? 
Sink me the ship. Master Gunner — sink her, split her 

in twain ! 
Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of 

Spain ! ' 90 



152 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 



XII 

And the gunner said ^Ay, ay/ but the seamen made 

reply : 
^ We have children, we have wives, 
And the Lord hath spared our lives. 
We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let 

us go ; 
We shall live to fight again and to strike another 

blow.' 95 

And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the 

foe. 

XIII 

And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him 

then 
Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard 

caught at last. 
And they praised him to his face with their courtly 

foreign grace; 
But he rose upon their decks, and he cried: lOO 

^I have fought for Queen and Faith like a gallant man 

and true ; 
I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do : fl 
With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Grenville die!'' 
x\nd he fell upon their decks, and he died. 



XIV 

And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant 

and true, 105 

And had holden the power p,nd glory of Spain so cheap 



THE REVENGE 153 

That he dared her with one little ship and his English 

few; 
Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they 

knew, 
But they sank his body with honour down in the deep. 
And they manned the Revenge with a swarthy alien 

crew, 110 

And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her 

own; 
When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke 

from sleep, 
And the water began to heave and the weather to moan, 
And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew. 
And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earth- 
quake grew, 115 
Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their 

masts and their flags. 
And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter' d 

navy of Spain, 
And the little Revenge herself went down by the island 

crags 
To be lost evermore in the main. 



154 ENGLISH XARRATIVE POEMS 



ROBERT BROWXIXG 

"HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS 
FROM GHENT TO AIX." 

[16-] 

I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; 

I galloped. Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; 

^^ Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts 

undrew ; 
^* Speed ! '' echoed the wall to us galloping through; 
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, 5 

And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 

Xot a word to each other; we kept the great pace 
Xeck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our 

place; 
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight. 
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pic[ue° right, lo 
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, 
Xor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 

Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near 
Lokeren,^ the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; 
At Boom,° a great yellow star came out to see ; 15 

At Diiffeld.° 'twas morning as plain as could be: 
And from Mecheln° church-steeple we heard the half- 
chime. 
So Joris broke silence with, '' Yet there is time!" 



HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD J^EWS 155 

At Aershot^° up leaped of a sudden the sun, 

And against him the cattle stood black every one, 20 

To stare through the mist at us galloping past. 

And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, 

With resolute shoulders, each butting away 

The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray : 

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent 
back 25 

For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; 
And one eye's black intelligence, — ever that glance 
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance ! 
And the thick heavy spume-fiakes which a^^e and anon 
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. ^ 

By Hasselt,^ Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, ^^ Stay 

spur ! 
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her. 
We'll remember at Aix " — for one heard the quick 

wheeze 
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering 

knees. 
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, 35 
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. 

So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, 
Past Looz^ and past Tongres,° no cloud in the sky; 
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 
^Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like 
chaff; 40 

TJl over by Dalhem° a dome-spire sprang white, 
And ''Gallop." gasped Joris, ''for Aix is in sight!" 



156 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

'^ How they'll greet us!'' — and all in a moment his 

roan 
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone ; 
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight 45 
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,° 
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, 
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. 

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall. 
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, 50 
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, 
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; 
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or 

good. 
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. 
And all I remember is — friends flocking round 5^ 

As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; 
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, 
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, 
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) 
Was no more than his due who brought good news from 

Ghent. 60 

INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP 

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon : 

A mile or so away, 
On a little mound, Napoleon 

Stood on our storming-day ; 
With neck out-thrust, ° you fancy how, 5 

Legs wide, arms locked behind. 
As if to balance the prone brow 

Oppressive with its mind. 



INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP 157 

Just as perhaps he mused° ^^ My plans 

That soar, to earth may fall, lo 

Let once my army-leader Lannes^ 

Waver at yonder wall/^ — 
Out ^twixt the battery-smokes there flew 

A rider, bound on bound . 
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew 15 

Until he reached the mound. 

Then off there flung in smiling joy, 

And held himself erect 
By just his horse's mane, a boy: 

You hardly could suspect — 20 

(So tight he kept his lips compressed, 

Scarce any blood came through) 
You looked twice ere you saw his breast 

Was all but shot in two. 

'' Well,^^ cried he, ^^ Emperor, by God's grace 25 

We've got you Ratisbon ! 
The Marshal's in the market-place. 

And you'll be there anon 
To see your flag-bird° flap his vans 

Where I, to heart's desire, 30 

Perched him ! " The chief's eye flashed; his plans 

Soared up again like fire. 

The chief's eye flashed; but presently 
Softened itself, as sheathes 

A film the mother-eagle's eye 35 

When her bruised eaglet breathes ; 
You're wounded ! " ^^ Nay," the soldier's pride 
Touched to the quick, he said : 
I'm killed, Sire ! " And his chief beside, 
Smiling the boy fell dead. 40 



a 



u 



158 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 

A Child's Story 
(Written for, and inscribed to, W. M. the Younger) 



Hamelin^ Town's in Brunswick, 
By famous Hanover city ; 

The river Weser, deep and wdde, 

Washes its wall on the southern side; 

A pleasanter spot you never spied ; 6 

But when begins my ditty, 

Almost five hundred 3^ears ago, 

To see the townsfolk suffer so 
From vermin, was a pity. 

II 

Rats ! 10 

They fought the dogs and killed the cats, 

And bit the babies in the cradles. 
And ate the cheeses out of the vats, 

And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles. 
Split open the kegs of salted sprats, 15 

Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, 
And even spoiled the women's chats 

By drowning their speaking 

\Vith shrieking and squeaking 
In fift}^ different sharps and flats. 20 

III 



At last the people in a body 

To the Town Hall came flocking : 



THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 159 



a Ji 



'Tis clear/^ cried they^ ^^ our Mayor^s a noddy; 
And as for our Corporation — shocking 
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine 25 

For dolts that can't or won't determine 
What's best to rid us of our vermin ! 
You hope, because you're old and obese, 
To find in the furry civic robe ease ? 
Ro.use up, sirs ! Give your brains a racking 30 

To find the remedy we're lacking, 
Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing ! '' 
At this the Mayor and Corporation 
Quaked with a mighty consternation. 

IV 

An hour they sat in council ; 35 

At length the Mayor broke silence : 
^^ For a guilder^ I'd my ermine gown sell, 

I wish I were a mile hence ! 
It's easy to bid one rack one's brain — 
I'm sure my poor head aches again, . 40 

I've scratched it so, and all in vain. 
for a trap, a trap, a trap ! " 
Just as he said this, what should hap 
At the chamber-door but a gentle tap ? 
'' Bless us," cried the Mayor, " what's that? " 45 
(With the Corporation as he sat. 
Looking little though wondrous fat ; 
Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister 
Than a too-long-opened oyster. 

Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous 50 
For a plate of 'turtle green and glutinous) 
^^ Only a scraping of shoes on the mat? 



160 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Anything like the sound of a rat 
Makes my heart go pit-a-pat ! ^^ 



'' Come in ! " the Mayor cried, looking bigger: 55 

And in did come the strangest figure ! 

His queer long coat from heel to head 

Was half of yellow and half of red, 

And he himself was tall and thin, 

With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, 60 

And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, 

No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, 

But lips where smiles went out and in; 

There was no guessing his kith and kin: 

And nobody could enough admire 65 

The tall man and his quaint attire. 

Quoth one: ^' It's as my great grandsire, 

Starting up at the Trump of Doom's^ tone, 

Had walked this way from his painted tombstone ! '^ 

VI 

He advanced to the council-table: 70 

And, ^^ Please your honors,'' said he, '^ Fm able, 

By means of a secret charm, to draw 

All creatures living beneath the sun, 

That creep or swim or fly or run. 

After me so as you never saw ! 76 

And I chiefly use my charm 

On creatures that do people harm, 

The mole and toad and newt and viper; 

And people call me the Pied Piper." ° 



THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 161 

(And here they noticed round his neck so 

A scarf of red and yellow stripe. 

To match with his coat of the self-same cheque; 

And at the scarfs end hung a pipe; 

And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying 

As if impatient to be playing S5 

Upon this pipe, as low it dangled 

Over his vesture so old-fangled.) 

^' Yet/^ said he, ^^ poor piper as I am, 

In Tartary I freed the Cham,° 

Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats ; 90 

I eased in Asia the Nizam° 

Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats : 

And as for what your brain bewilders, 

If I can rid your town of rats 

Will you give me a thousand guilders? ^^ 95 

'^ One? fifty thousand ! '' — was the exclamation 

Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. 

VII 

Into the street the Piper stept, 

Smiling first a little smile, 
As if he knew what magic slept lOO 

In his quiet pipe the while ; 
Then, like a musical adept. 
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, 
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled. 
Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled; 105 
And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered. 
You heard as if an army muttered ; 
And the muttering grew to a grumbling; 
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; 



162 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

And out of the houses the rats came tumbling, no 
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, 
Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, 
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, 

Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, 
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, 115 

Families by tens and dozens, 
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives — 
Followed the Piper for their lives. 
From street to street he piped advancing, 
And step by step they followed dancing, 120 

Until they came to the river Weser, 
Wherein all plunged and perished ! 
— Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar, ° 
Swam across and lived to carry 
(As he, the manuscript he cherished) 125 

To rat-land home his commentary^: 
Which was, '^ At the first shrill notes of the pipe, 
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, 
And putting apples, wondrous ripe. 
Into a cider-press's gripe: 130 

And a moving away of pickle-tub boards, 
And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, 
And a drawing the corks of train-oil flasks. 
And a breaking the hoops of butter casks : 
And it seemed as if a voice 135 

(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery 
Is breathed) called out, ' rats, rejoice! 
The world is grown to one vast drysaltery ! 
So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, 
Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon ! ' 140 

And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, 
Already staved, like a great sun shone 



THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 163 

Glorious scarce an inch before me, 

Just as methought it said, ' Come, bore me ! ' 

— I found the Weser roUing o'er me.'' 145 

VIII 

You should have heard the Hamelin people 

Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. 

'^ Go/" cried the Mayor, ^^ and get long poles, 

Poke out the nests and block up the holes ! 

Consult with carpenters and builders, 150 

And leave in our town not even a trace 

Of the rats ! " — when suddenly, up the face 

Of the Piper perked in the market-place. 

With a, ^' First, if you please, my thousand guilders ! '' 

IX 

A thousand guilders ! The Mayor looked blue; 155 

So did the Corporation too. 

For council dinners made rare havoc 

With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; 

And half the money would replenish 

Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. 160 

To pay this sum to a wandering fellow 

With a gypsy coat of red and yellow ! 

*^ Beside," quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink, 

" Our business was done at the river's brink; 

We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, 165 

And what's dead can't come to life, I think. 

So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink 

From the duty of giving you something for drink, 

And a matter of money to put in your poke°; 



164 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

But as for the guilders, what we spoke 170 

Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. 
Beside, our losses have made us thrifty. 
A thousand guilders ! Come, take fifty ! '' 



The Piper^s face fell, and he cried, 

'' No trifling ! I can't wait, beside ! 175 

I've promised to visit by dinner time 

Bagdat, and accept the prime 

Of the Head-Cook's pottage, all he's rich in, 

For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen, 

Of a nest of scorpions no survivor : 180 

With him I proved no bargain-driver, 

With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver^ ! 

And folks who put me in a passion 

May find me pipe after another fashion." 

XI 

'' How? " cried the Mayor, '' d'ye think I brook 185 

Being worse treated than a Cook ? 

Insulted by a lazy ribald 

With idle pipe and vesture piebald^ ? 

You threaten us, fellow ? Do your worst, 

Blow your pipe there till you burst ! " 190 

XII 

Once more he stept into the street. 

And to his lips again 
Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; 



THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 165 

And ere he blew three notes (such sweet 
Soft notes as yet musician's cunning 195 

Never gave the enraptured air) 
There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling 
Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling; 
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, 
Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, 200 
And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scat- 
tering. 
Out came the children running. ^ 

All the little boys and girls. 
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, 
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, 205 

Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after 
The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. 

XIII 

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood 

As if they were changed into blocks of wood, 

Unable to move a step, or cry 210 

To the children merrily skipping by, 

— Could only follow with the eye 

That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. 

But how the Mayor was on the rack. 

And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, 215 

As the Piper turned from the High Street 

To where the Weser rolled its waters 

Right in the way of their sons and daughters ! 

However, he turned from South to West, 

And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, 220 

And after him the children pressed; 

Great was the joy in every breast. 



166 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

^^ He never can cross that mighty top ! 
He's forced to let the piping drop, 
And we shall see our children stop ! ^^ 226 

When, lo, as they reached the mountain-side, 
A wondrous portal opened wide, 
As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; 
And the Piper advanced and the children followed, 
And when all were in to the very last, 230 

The door in the mountain-side shut fast. 
,Pid I say, all ? No ! One was lame, 
And could not dance the whole of the way; 
And in after years, if you would blame 
His sadness, he was used to say, — 235 

^' It's dull in our town since my playmates left ! 
I can't forget that I'm bereft 
Of all the pleasant sights they see. 
Which the Piper also promised me. 
For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, 240 

Joining the town and just at hand. 
Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew 
And flowers put forth a fairer hue. 
And everything was strange and new; 
The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, 245 
And their dogs outran our fallow deer. 
And honey-bees had lost their stings. 
And horses were born with eagles' wings : 
And just as I became assured 

My lame foot would be speedily cured, 250 

The music stopped and I stood still, 
And found myself outside the hill, 
Left alone against my will. 
To go now limping as before. 
And never hear of that country more ! '' 255 



THE PIED PIPER OF UAMELIN 167 



XIV 

Alas, alas ! for Hamelin ! 

There came into many a burgher's pate 

A text which says that heaven's gate 

Opes to the rich at as easy rate 
As the needle's eye° takes a camel in ! 260 

The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South, 
To offer the Piper, by word of mouth. 

Wherever it was men's lot to find him. 
Silver and gold to his heart's content. 
If he'd only return the way he went, 265 

And bring the children behind him. 
But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor, 
And Piper and dancers were gone forever, 
They made a decree that lawyers never 

Should think their records dated duly 270 

If, after the day of the month and year. 
These words did not as well appear, 
'^ And so long after what happened here 

On the Twenty-second of July, 
Thirteen hundred and seventy-six: " 275 

And the better in memory to fix 
The place of the children's last retreat. 
They called it the Pied Piper's Street — 
Where any one playing on pipe or tabor 
Was sure for the future to lose his labor. 280 

Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern 

To shock with mirth a street so solemn; 
But opposite the place of the cavern 

They wrote the story on a column. 
And on the great church-window painted 285 

The same, to make the world acquainted 



168 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

How their children were stolen away, 

And there it stands to this very day. 

And I must not omit to say 

That in Transylvania there's a tribe 290 

Of alien people who ascribe 

The outlandish ways and dress 

On which their neighbors lay such stress, 

To their fathers and mothers having risen 

Out of some subterraneous prison 295 

Into which the}^ were trepanned 

Long time ago in a mighty band 

Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, 

But how or why, they don't understand. 

XV 

So, Willy, let me and you be wipers 300 

Of scores out with all men — especially pipers ! 
And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice, 
If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise ! 

HERVE RIEL 
I 

On the sea and at the Hogue,° sixteen hundred ninety- 
two. 
Did the English fight the French, — woe to France ! 

And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through 
the blue. 

Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks 
pursue, 
Came crowding ship on ship to Saint Malo on the 5 
Rance,° 

With the English fleet in view. 



HERVE RIEL 169 



II 

^Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in 
full chase; 
First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, 
Damfreville. 
Close on him fled, great and small, 
Twenty-two good ships in all ; lo 

And they signalled to the place 
^' Help the winners of a race ! 

Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick — 
or, quicker still, 
Kerens the English can and will ! ^' 

III 

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on 

board; lo 

^' Why, what hope or chance have ships like these 

to pass?^' laughed they: 

'^ Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage 

scarred and scored. 
Shall the ' Formidable ^ here with her twelve and eighty 
guns 
Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow 
way. 
Trust to enter where 'tis tickhsh for a craft of twenty 
tons, 20 

And with flow at full beside ? 
Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. 
Reach the mooring? Rather say^ 
While rock stands or water runs. 
Not a ship will leave the bay ! '' 25 



170 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

IV 

Then was called a council straight, 

Brief and bitter the debate: 

^' Here's the English at our heels; would you have them 

take in tow 
All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern 

and bow. 
For a prize to Plymouth Sound° ? 30 

Better run the ships aground ! " 

(Ended Damfreville his speech.) 
'^ Not a minute more to wait ! 
Let the Captains all and each 

Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on 
the beach I 35 

France must undergo her fate. 

v 

^^ Give the word ! '' But no such word 
Was ever spoke or heard ; 

For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid 
all these 
— A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate — first, sec- 
ond, third? 40 
No such man of mark, and meet 
With his betters to compete ! 

But a simple Breton sailor pressed^ by Tourville° 
for the fleet, 
A poor coasting-pilot he, Herve Kiel the Croisickese.° 

VI 

And ^^What mockery or malice have we here ? " cries 
Herve Riel : 45 



HERVE RIEL 111 

^^ Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, 
fools, or rogues ? 
Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the sound- 
ings, tell 
On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every sw^ell, 
'Twixt the offing here and Greve where the river 
disembogues ? 
Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the 
lying's for? 50 

Morn and eve, night and day, 
Have I piloted your bay. 
Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. 
Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse 
than fifty Hogues ! 
Sirs, they know I speak the truth ! Sirs, believe 
me there's a way ! 55 

Only let me lead the line. 

Have the biggest ship to steer. 
Get this ' Formidable ^ clear, 
Make the others follow mine. 

And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know 
well, 60 

Right to Solidor past Greve, 

And there lay them safe and sound ; 
And if one ship misbehave, 
— Keel so much as grate the ground. 
Why, I've nothing but my life, — here^s my head ! '^ 
cries Herve Riel. 65 



VII 



Not a minute more to wait. 

'^ Steer us in, then, small and great ! 



172 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron ! ^' 
cried its chief. 
Captains, give the sailor place ! 

He is Admiral, in brief. 70 

Still the north-wind, by God's grace ! 
See the noble fellow's face 
As the big ship, with a bound, 
Clears the entry like a hound. 

Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide 
sea's profound ! 75 

See, safe through shoal and rock, 

How they follow in a flock, 
Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates 
the ground. 

Not a spar that comes to grief ! 
The peril, see, is past, so 

All are harbored to the last, 
And just as Herve Riel hollas ^'Anchor!'' — sure 

as fate. 
Up the English come — too late ! 

VIII 

So, the storm subsides to calm : 

They see the green trees wave 85 

On the heights o'erlooking Greve. 
Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. 
** Just our rapture to enhance, 

Let the English rake the bay. 
Gnash their teeth and glare askance 90 

As they cannonade away ! 
'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the 
Ranee!" 



HERVE RIEL 173 

How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's coun- 
tenance ! 
Out burst all with one accord, 

''This is Paradise for Hell ! 95 

Let France, let France's King 

Thank the man that did the thing ! '^ • 
What a shout, and all one word, 

'' Herve Riel ! '' 
As he stepped in front once more, lOO 

Not a symptom of surprise 

In the frank blue Breton eyes, 
Just the same man as before. 



IX 

Then said Damfreville, '' My friend, 

T must speak out at the end, 105 

Though I find the speaking hard. 
Praise is deeper than the lips : 
You have saved the King his ships, 

You must name your own reward. 
'Faith, our sun was near eclipse ! no 

Demand whatever you will, 
France remains your debtor still. 

Ask to heart's content and have ! or my name's not 
Damfreville." 

X 

Then a beam of fun outbroke 

On the bearded mouth that spoke, 115 

As the honest heart laughed through 

Those frank eyes of Breton blue : 

'' Since I needs must say my say. 



174 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Since on board the duty's done, 

And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it 
but a run ? — 120 

Since 'tis ask and have, I may — 

Since the others go ashore — 
Come ! A good whole hoUday ! 

Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle 

Aurore ! " 
That he asked and that he got, — nothing more. 125 

XI 

Name and deed alike are lost : 
Not a pillar nor a post 

In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; 
Not a head in white and black 

On a single fishing smack, 130 

In memory of the man but for whom had gone to 
wrack 
All that France saved from the fight whence Eng- 
land bore the bell. 
Go to Paris : rank on rank 

Search the heroes flung pell-mell 
On the Louvre, face and flank ! 135 

You shall look long enough ere vou come to Herve 
Riel. 
So, for better and for worse, 
Herve Riel, accept my verse ! 
In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more 
Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the 
Belle Aurore ! 140 



TEE WHITE SHIP 175 



DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 

THE WHITE SHIP 

Henry I° of England — 25th Nov., 1120 

By none but me can the tale be told, 
The butcher of Rouen, ° poor Berold. 

{Lands are swayed by a king on a throne,) 
Twas a royal train put forth to sea. 
Yet the tale can be told by none but me. 5 

{The sea hath no king but God alone,) 

King Henry held it as life's whole gain 
That after his death his son should reign. 

'Twas so in my youth I heard men say. 

And my old age calls it back to-day. lo 

King Henry of England's realm was he. 
And Henry Duke of Normandy. 

The times had changed when on either coast 
^^ Clerkly Harry " was all his boast. ° 

Of ruthless^ strokes full many an one 15 

He had struck to crown himself and his son; 
And his elder brother's eyes were gone.° 

And when to the chase his court would crowd, 

The poor flung ploughshares on his road, 

And shrieked: '' Our cry is from King to God ! " 20 



176 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

But all the chiefs of the English land 
Had knelt and kissed the Prince's hand. 

And next with his son he sailed to France 
To claim the Xorman allegiance: 

And every baron in Normandy 25 

Had taken the oath of fealty."^ 

Twas sworn and sealed, and the day had come 
When the Iving and the Prince might journey home: 

For Christmas cheer is to home hearts dear, 

And Christmas now was drawing near. 30 

Stout Fitz-Stephen came to the King, — 
A pilot famous in seafaring; 

And he held to the King in all men's sight, 
A mark of gold for his tribute's right. 

'^ Liege^ Lord ! my father guided the ship 35 

From whose boat your father's^ foot did slip 
When he caught the EngUsh soil in his grip, 

*' And cried: * By this clasp I claim command 
O'er every rood° of English land ! ' 

'^ He was borne to the realm you rule o'er now 40 
In that ship with the archer carved at her prow: 

" And thither Fll bear an' it be my due, 
Your father's son and his grandson too. 

" The famed White Ship is mine in the bay; 

From Harfleur's harbor° she sails to-day, 45 



THE WHITE SHIP 177 

'^ With masts fair-pennoned as Norman spears 
And with fifty well-tried mariners/' 

Quoth the King: ^^ My ships are chosen each one, 
But I'll not say nay to Stephen's son. 

^^ My son and daughter and fellowship 50 

Shall cross the water in the White Ship.'' 

The King set sail with the eve's south wind, 
And soon he left that coast behind. 

The Prince and all his, a princely show, 
Remained in the good White Ship to go. 55 

With noble knights and with ladies fair, 
With courtiers and sailors gathered there. 
Three hundred living souls we were : 

And I Berold was the meanest hind° 

In all that train to the Prince assigned. 60 

The Prince was a lawless shameless youth; 
From his father's loins he sprang without ruth: 

Eighteen years till then had he seen, 
And the devil's dues in him were eighteen. 

And now he cried: " Bring wine from below; Qo 
Let the sailors revel ere yet they row : 

^' Our speed shall o'ertake my father's flight 
Though we sail from the harbor at midnight." 

The rowers made good cheer without check; 

The lords and ladies obeyed his beck ; 70 

The night was light and they danced on the deck. 



178 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

But at midnight's stroke they cleared the bay, 
And the White Ship furrowed the water-way. 

The sails were set^ and the oars kept tune 

To the double flight of the ship and the moon : 75 

Swifter and swifter the White Ship sped 
Till she flew as the spirit flies from the dead: 

As white as a lily glimmered she 
Like a ship's fair ghost upon the sea. 

And the Prince cried, ^^ Friends, 'tis the hour to sing ! 80 
Is a songbird's course so swift on the wing? " 

And under the winter stars' still throng, 

From brown throats, white throats, merry and strong, 

The knights and the ladies raised a song. 

A song, — nay, a shriek that rent the sky, 85 

That leaped o'er the deep ! — the grievous cry 
Of three hundred living that now must die. 

An instant shriek that sprang to the shock 
As the ship's keel felt the sunken rock. 

'Tis said that afar — a shrill strange sigh — 90 

The King's ships heard it and knew not why. 

Pale Fitz-Stephen stood by the helm 

'Mid all those folk that the waves must whelm. 

A great King's heir for the waves to whelm 

And the helpless pilot pale at the helm ! 95 

The ship was eager and sucked athirst, 

By the stealthy stab of the sharp reef pierced. 



THE WHITE SHIP 179 

And like the moil^ round a sinking cup, 
The waters against her crowded up. 

A moment the pilot^s senses spin, — loo 

The next he snatched the Prince 'mid the din, 
Cut the boat loose, and the 3^outh leaped in. 

A few friends leaped with him, standing near. 

^^ Row ! the sea's smooth and the night is clear ! ^^ 

'' What ! none to be saved but these and I ? " 105 
^^ Row, row as you'd live! All here must die! " 

Out of the churn of the choking ship. 
Which the gulf grapples and the vx^aves strip, 
They struck with the strained oars' flash and dip. 

'Twas then o'er the splitting bulwarks' brim no 

The Prince's sister screamed to him. 

He gazed aloft still rowing apace. 

And through the whirled surf he knew her face. 

To the toppling decks clave one and all 

As a fly cleaves to a chamber-wall. ii5 

I Berold was clinging anear; 

I prayed for myself and quaked with fear, 

But I saw his eyes as he looked at her. 

He knew her face and he heard her cry. 

And he said, '' Put back ! she must not die ! " 120 

And back with the current's force they reel 
Like a leaf that's drawn to a water-wheel. 



180 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 



J XT 



Neath the ship's travail they scarce might float, 
But he rose and stood in the rocking boat. 

Low the poor ship leaned on the tide: 125 

O'er the naked keel as she best might slide, 
The sister toiled to the brother's side. 

He reached an oar to her from below. 
And stiffened his arms to clutch her so. 

But now from the ship some spied the boat, 130 

And ^^ Saved ! "was the cry from many a throat. 

And down to the boat they leaped and fell: 

It turned as a bucket turns in a well, 

And nothing was there but the surge and swell. 

The Prince that was and the King to come, 135 

There in an instant gone to his doom, 

In spite of all England's bended knee 
And maugre° the Norman fealty ! 

He was a Prince of lust and pride ; 

He showed no grace till the hour he died. 140 

When he should be king, he oft would vow. 
He'd yoke the peasant to his own plough. 
O'er him the ships score their furrows now. 

God only knows where his soul did wake, 

But I saw him die for his sister's sake. 145 

By none but me can the tale be told, 
The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold. 

{Lands are swayed by a king on a throne.) 



THE WHITE SHIP 181 

'Twas a royal train put forth to sea, 
Yet the tale can be told by none but me. 150 

(The sea hath no king but God alone,) 

And now the end came o^er the waters^ womb 
Like the last great Day that's yet to come. 

With prayers in vain and curses in vain, 

The White Ship sundered on the mid-main : 155 

And what were men and what was a ship 
Were toys and splinters in the sea's grip. 

I Berold was down in the sea; 

And passing strange though the thing may be, 

Of dreams then known I remember me. 160 

Blithe is the shout on Harfleur's strand 
When morning lights the sails to land : 

And blithe is Honfleur's^ echoing gloam 
When mothers call the children home : 

And high do the bells of Rouen beat " 165 

When the Body of Christ^ goes down the street. 

These things and the like were heard and shown 
In a moment's trance 'neath the sea alone; 

And when I rose, 'twas the sea did seem. 

And not these things, to be all a dream. 170 

The ship was gone and the crowd was gone, 
And the deep shuddered and the moon shone : 



182 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

And in a strait grasp my arms did span 

The mainyard rent from the mast where it ran; 

And on it with me was another man. 175 

Where lands were none 'neath the dim sea-sky, 
We told our names, that man and I. 

^' O I am Godefroy FAigle hight,° 
And son I am to a belted knight. '^ 

'^ And I am Berold the butcher's son 180 

Who slays the beasts in Rouen town." 

Then cried w^e upon God's name, as we 
Did drift on the bitter winter sea. 

But lo ! a third man rose o'er the wave, 

And we said, '^ Thank God ! us three may He save ! "185 

He clutched to the yard with panting stare. 
And we looked and knew Fitz-Stephen there. 

He clung, and ^^ What of the Prince? " quoth he. 
^^ Lost, lost ! " w^e cried. He cried, ^^ Woe on me ! " 
And loosed his hold and sank through the sea. 190 

And soul with soul again in that space 
We two were together face to face : 

And each knew each, as the moment sped, 
Less for one living than for one dead : 

And every still star overhead 195 

Seemed an eye that knew we w^ere but dead. 



THE WHITE SHIP 183 

And the hours passed; till the noble's son 

Sighed, ^^ God be thy help ! my strength's foredone° ! 

'^ O farewell, friend, for I can no more ! " 

^^ Christ take thee ! " I moaned ; and his life was o'er. 200 

Three hundred souls were all lost but one, 
And I drifted over the sea alone. 

At last the morning rose on the sea 

Like an angel's wing that beat tow'ds me. 

Sore numbed I was in my sheepskin coat; 205 

Half dead I hung, and might nothing note, 
Till I woke sun-warmed in a fisher-boat. 

The sun was high o'er the eastern brim 
As I praised God and gave thanks to Him. 

That day I told my tale to a priest, 210 

Who charged me, till the shrift° were released, 
That I should keep it in mine own breast. 

And with the priest I thence did fare 
To King Henry's court at Winchester. ° 

We spoke with the King's high chamberlain, 215 

And he wept and mourned again and again. 
As if his own son had been slain : 

And round us ever there crowded fast 
Great men with faces all aghast : 

And who so bold that might tell the thing 220 

Which now they knew to their lord the King? 
Much woe I learned in their communing. 



184 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

The King had watched with a heart sore stirred 
For two whole days, and this was the third: 

And still to all his court would he say, 225 

'"What keeps my son so long away? '' 

And they said: " The ports lie far and wide 
That skirt the swell of the Enghsh tide; 

'^\nd English cliffs are not more white 

Than her women are, and scarce so light 230 

Her skies as their eyes are blue and bright; 



''And in some port that he reached from France 

The Prince has lingered for his pleasaunce.' 



1 o 



But once the King asked: ^' What distant cry 

Was that we heard 'twixt the sea and sky? '' 235 

And one said: '' With suchlike shouts, pardie° 
Do the fishers fling their nets at sea." 

And one: '' Who knows not the shrieking quest 
When the sea-mew misses its young from its nest? '' 

Twas thus till now they had soothed his dread 240 
Albeit they knew not what they said: 

But who should speak to-day of the thing 
That all knew there except the King? 

Then pondering much they found a way, 

And met round the King's high seat that day. 245 

And the King sat vrith a heart sore stirred, 
And seldom he spoke and seldom heard. 



THE WHITE SHIP 185 

'Twas then through the hall the King was 'ware 
Of a little boy with golden hair^ 

As bright as the golden poppy is 250 

That the beach breeds for the surf to kiss : 

Yet pale his cheek as the thorn in Spring, 
And his garb black like the raven's wing. 

Nothing heard but his foot through the hall, 

For now the lords were silent all. 255 

And the King wondered^ and said, ^^ Alack ! 
Who sends me a fair boy dressed in black ? 

'' Why, sweet heart, do you pace through the hall 
As though my court were a funeral? '' 

Then lowly knelt the child at the dais,^ 260 

And looked up weeping in the King's face. 

'^ O wherefore black, King, ye may say, 
For white is the hue of death to-day. 

" Your son and all his fellowship 

Lie low in the sea with the White Ship.'' 265 

King Henry fell as a man struck dead ; 
And speechless still he stared from his bed 
When to him next day my rede° I read. 

There's many an hour must needs beguile 

A King's high heart that he should smile, — 270 



186 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Full many a lordly hour, full fain 

Of his realm's rule and pride of his reign: — 

But this King never smiled again. 

By none but me can the tale be told, 

The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold. 275 

{Lands are swayed by a king on a throne.) 
'Twas a royal train put forth to sea, 
Yet the tale can be told by none but me. 

{The sea hath no king hut God alone.) 



ATALANTA^S RACE 187 



WILLIAM MORRIS 

ATALANTA^S RACE 
Argument 

Atalanta, daughter of King Schoeneus, not willing to lose her virgin's 
estate, made it a law to all suitors that they should run a race with 
her in the public place, and if they failed to overcome her should 
die unrevenged ; and thus many brave men perished. At last came 
Milanion, the son of Amphidamas, who, outrunning her with the 
help of Venus, gained the virgin and wedded her. 

Through thick Arcadian^ woods a hunter went, 
Following the beasts up, on a fresh spring day; 
But since his horn-tipped bow, but seldom bent, 
Now at the noon-tide naught had happed to slay, 
Within a vale he called his hounds aw^ay, 5 

Hearkening the echoes of his lone voice cling 
About the cliffs and through the beech-trees ring. 

But when they ended, still awhile he stood, 
And but the sweet familiar thrush could hear, 
And all the day-long noises of the wood, 10 

And o'er the dry leaves of the vanished year 
His hounds' feet pattering as the}^ drew anear. 
And heavy breathing from their heads low hung, 
To see the mighty corneP bow unstrung. 

Then smiling did he turn to leave the place, 15 

But with his first step some new fleeting thought 
A shadow cast across his sunburnt face; 
I think the golden net that April brought 
From some warm world his wavering soul had caught; 



188 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

For, sunk in vague sweet longing, did he go 20 

Betwixt the trees with doubtful steps and slow. 

Yet howsoever slow he went, at last 
The trees grew sparser, and the wood was done; 
Whereon one farewell, backward look he cast, 
Then, turning round to see what place was won, 25 

With shaded eyes looked underneath the sun. 
And o'er green meads and new-turned furrows brown 
Beheld the gleaming of King Schoeneus'° town. 

So thitherward he turned, and on each side 
The folk were busy on the teeming land, 30 

And man and maid from the brown furrows cried, 
Or midst the newly blossomed vines did stand, 
And as the rustic weapon pressed the hand 
Thought of the nodding of the well-filled ear, 
Or how the knife the heavy bunch should shear. 35 

Merry it was : about him sung the birds, 
The spring flowers bloomed along the firm dry road, 
The sleek-skinned mothers of the sharp-horned herds 
Now for the barefoot milking-maidens lowed; 
While from the freshness of his blue abode, 40 

Glad his death-bearing arrows to forget. 
The broad sun blazed, nor scattered plagues as yet. 

Through such fair things unto the gates he came, 
And found them open, as though peace were there; 
Wherethrough, unquestioned of his race or name, 45 
He entered, and along the streets 'gan fare. 
Which at the first of folk were wellnigh bare ; 
But pressing on, and going more hastily. 
Men hurrying too he 'gan at last to see. 



ATALANTA^S RACE 189 

Following the last of these, he still pressed on, so 
Until an open space he came unto, 
Where wreaths of fame had oft been lost and won, 
For feats of strength folk there were wont to do. 
And now our hunter looked for something new, 
Because the whole wide space was bare, and stilled 55 
The high seats were, with eager people filled. 

There with the others to a seat he gat, 
Whence he beheld a broidered canopy, 
'Neath which in fair array King Schceneus sat 
Upon his throne with councillors thereby ; 60 

And underneath this well-wrought seat and high. 
He saw a golden image of the sun,° 
A silver image of the Fleet-foot One.° 

A brazen altar stood beneath their feet 
Whereon a thin flame flickered in the wind; 65 

Nigh this a herald clad in raiment meet 
Made ready even now his horn to wind. 
By whom a huge man held a sword, intwined 
With yellow flowers; these stood a little space 
From off the altar, nigh the starting-place. 70 

And there two runners did the sign abide 
Foot set to foot, — a young man slim and fair, 
Crisp-haired, well-knit, with firm limbs often tried 
In places where no man his strength may spare; 
Dainty his thin coat was, and on his hair 75 

A golden circlet of renown he wore. 
And in his hand an olive garland bore. 

But on this day with whom shall he contend ? 
\ maid stood by him like Diana° clad 



190 EXGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

When in the woods she lists^ her bow to bend, 80 

Too fair for one to look on and be glad, 
Who scarcely yet has thirty summers had, 
If he must still behold her from afar; 

Too fair to let the world live free from war. 

She seemed all earthly matters to forget ; 85 

Of all tormenting lines her face was clear, 
Her wide gray eyes upon the goal were set 
Calm and unmoved as though no soul were near, 
But her foe trembled as a man in fear. 
Nor from her loveliness one moment turned 90 

His anxious face with fierce desire that burned. 

Xow through the hush there broke the trumpet's clang 
Just as the setting sun made eventide. 
Then from light feet a spurt of dust there sprang. 
And swiftly were they running side by side; 95 

But silent did the thronging folk abide 
Until the turning-post was reached at last. 
And round about it still abreast they passed. 

But when the people saw how close they ran. 
When half-wa}^ to the starting-point they were, lOO 

A cry of joy broke forth, whereat the man 
Headed the white-foot runner, and drew near 
Unto the very end of all his fear ; 
And scarce his straining feet the ground could feel. 
And bliss unhoped for o'er his heart 'gan steal. 105 

But midst the loud victorious shouts he heard 
Her footsteps drawing nearer, and the sound 
Of fluttering raiment, and thereat afeard 
His flushed and eager face he turned around, 



atalaxta's race 191 

And even then he felt her past him bound no 

Fleet as the wind^ but scarcely saw her there 
Till on the goal she laid her fingers fair. 

There stood she breathing like a little child 
Amid some warlike clamor laid asleep. 
For no victorious joy her red lips smiled, 115 

Her cheek its wonted freshness did but keep ; 
No glance lit up her clear gray eyes and deep, 
Though some divine thought softened all her face 
As once more rang the trumpet through the place. 

But her late foe stopped short amidst his course, 120 
One moment gazed upon her piteously. 
Then with a groan his lingering feet did force 
To leave the spot whence he her eyes could see ; 
And, changed like one who knows his time must be 
But short and bitter, without any word 125 

He knelt before the bearer of the sword ; 

Then high rose up the gleaming deadly blade, 
Bared of its flowers, and through the crowded place 
Was silence now, and midst of it the maid 
Went by the poor wretch at a gentle pace, 130 

And he to hers upturned his sad white face; 
Nor did his eyes behold another sight 
Ere on his soul there fell eternal night. 



So was the pageant ended, and all folk, 
Talking of this and that familiar thing 135 

In little groups from that sad concourse broke, 
For now the shrill bats were upon the wing, 



192 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

And soon dark night would sla}^ the evening, 

And in dark gardens sang the nightingale 

Her little-heeded, oft-repeated tale. 140 

And with the last of all the hunter went, 
Who, wondering at the strange sight he had seen. 
Prayed an old man to tell him what it meant, 
Both why the vanquished man so slain had been. 
And if the maiden were an earthly queen, 145 

Or rather what much more she seemed to be, 
No sharer in the world's mortality. 

^^ Stranger,'^ said he, ^' I pray she soon may die 
Whose lovely youth has slain so many an one ! 
King Schoeneus' daughter is she verily, 150 

Who when her eyes first looked upon the sun 
Was fain to end her life but new begun, 
For he had vowed to leave but men alone 
Sprung from his loins when he from earth was gone. 

'^ Therefore he bade one leave her in the wood, 155 
x4nd let wild things deal with her as they might, 
But this being done, som.e cruel god thought good 
To save her beauty in the world's despite: 
Folk say that her, so delicate and white 
As now she is, a rough, root-grubbing bear 160 

Amidst her shapeless cubs at first did rear. 

'^ In course of time the woodfolk slew her nurse, 
And to their rude abode the youngling brought, 
And reared her up to be a kingdom's curse, 
AVho grown a woman, of no kingdom thought, 165 

But armed and swift, 'mid beasts destruction wrought, 



ATALANTA'S RACE 193 

Nor spared two shaggy centaur kings to slay, 
To whom her body seemed an easy prey. 

^'So to this city, led by fate, she came 
Whom known by signs, whereof I cannot tell, 170 
King Schoeneus for his child at last did claim. 
Nor otherwise since that day doth she dwell. 
Sending too many a noble soul to hell. — 
What ! thine eyes glisten ! what then, thinkest thou 
Her shining head unto the yoke to bow ? 175 

'^ Listen, my son, and love some other maid, 
For she the saffron gown° will never wear, 
And on no flower-strewn couch shall she be laid, 
Nor shall her voice make glad a lover's ear: 
Yet if of Death thou hast not any fear, 180 

Yea, rather, if thou lovest him utterly. 
Thou still may'st woo her ere thou comest to die, 

'^Like him that on this day thou sawest lie dead; 
For, fearing as I deem the sea-born one,° 
The maid has vowed e'en such a man to wed 185 

As in the course her swift feet can outrun, 
But whoso fails herein, his days are done : 
He came the nighest that was slain to-day, 
Although with him I deem she did but play. 

'^ Behold, such mercy Atalanta gives 190 

To those that long to win her loveliness ; 
Be wise ! be sure that many a maid there lives 
Gentler than she, of beauty little less. 
Whose swimming eyes thy loving words shall bless, 
When in some garden, knee set close to knee, 195 
Thou sing'st the song that love may teach to thee/' 
o 



194 EXGLISH XARRATITE POEMS 

So to the hunter spake that ancient man, 
And left him for his own home presently : 
But he turned round, and through the moonlight wan 
Reached the thick wood, and there, 'twixt tree and 
tree 200 

Distraught he passed the long night feverishly, 
'Twixt sleep and waking, and at dawn arose 
To wage hot war against his speechless foes. 

There to the hart's flank seemed his shaft to grow, 
As panting down the broad green glades he flew, 205 
There by his horn the Dryads^ well might know 
His thrust against the bear's heart had been true, 
And there Adonis' bane^ his javelin slew, 
But still in vain through rough and smooth he went, 
For none the more his restlessness was spent. 210 

So wandering, he to Argive^ cities came, 
And in the lists with valiant men he stood, 
And by gi*eat deeds he won him praise and fame, 
And heaps of wealth for little-valued blood; 
But none of all these things, or life, seemed good 215 
Unto his heart, where still unsatisfied 
A ravenous longing warred with fear and pride. 

Therefore it happed when but a month had gone 
Since he had left King Schoeneus* city old. 
In hunting-gear again, again alone 220 

The forest-bordered meads did he behold. 
Where still mid thoughts of August's quivering gold 
Folk hoed the wheat, and clipped the vine in trust 
Of faint October's purple-foaming rnust.^ 



ATALANTA'S RACE 195 

And once again he passed the peaceful gate, 225 
While to his beating heart his lips did lie, 
That, owning not victorious love and fate. 
Said, half aloud, ^^ And here too must I try, 
To win of alien men the mastery. 
And gather for my head fresh meed of fame, 230 

And cast new glory on my father's name/' 

In spite of that, how beat his heart, when first 
Folk said to him, ^^ And art thou come to see 
That which still makes our city's name accurst 
Among all mothers for its cruelty ? 235 

Then know indeed that fate is good to thee 
Because to-morrow a new luckless one 
Against the whitefoot maid is pledged to run.'' 

So on the morrow with no curious eyes 
As once he did, that piteous sight he saw^, 240 

Nor did that wonder in his heart arise 
As toward the goal the conquering maid 'gan draw, 
Nor did he gaze upon her eyes with awe, 
Too full the pain of longing filled his heart 
For fear or wonder there to have a part. 245 

But 0, how long the night was ere it went ! 
How long it was before the dawn begun 
Showed to the wakening birds the sun's intent 
That not in darkness should the world be done ! 
And then, and then, how long before the sun 250 

Bade silently the toilers of the earth 
Get forth to fruitless cares or empty mirth ! 

And long it seemed that in the market-place 
He stood and saw the chaffering folk go by, 



196 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Ere from the ivory throne King Schoeneus' face 255 
Looked down upon the murmur royally, 
But then came trembling that the time was nigh 
When he midst pitying looks his love must claim, 
And jeering voices must salute his name. 

But as the throng he pierced to gain the throne, 260 
His alien face distraught and anxious told 
What hopeless errand he was bound upon. 
And, each to each, folk whispered to behold 
His godlike limbs; nay, and one woman old 
As he went by must pluck him by the sleeve 265 

And pray him yet that wretched love to leave. 

For sidling up she said, ^^ Canst thou live twice, 
Fair son? canst thou have joyful youth again, 
That thus goest to the sacrifice. 

Thyself the victim ? nay then, all in vain, 270 

Thy mother bore her longing and her pain. 
And one more maiden on the earth must dwell 
Hopeless of joy, nor fearing death and hell. 

^^ fool, thou knowest not the compact then 
That with the three-formed goddess she has made 275 
To keep her from the loving lips of men. 
And in no saffron gown to be arrayed. 
And therewithal with glory to be paid, 
And love of her the moonlit river sees 
White 'gainst the shadow of the formless trees. 280 

''Come back, and I myself will pray for thee 
Unto the sea-born framer of delights. 
To give thee her who on the earth may be 



ATALANTA^S RACE 197 

The fairest stirrer-up to death and fights^ 
To quench with hopeful days and joyous nights 285 
The flame that doth thy youthful heart consume: 
Come back, nor give thy beauty to the tomb/' 

How should he listen to her earnest speech ? 
Words, such as he not once or twice had said 
Unto himself, whose meaning scarce could reach 290 
The firm abode of that sad hardihead — 
He turned about^ and through the market stead 
Swiftly he passed, until before the throne 
In the cleared space he stood at last alone. 

Then said the King, ^' Stranger, what dost thou 
here ? 295 

Have any of my folk done ill to thee ? 
Or art thou of the forest men in fear ? 
Or art thou of the sad fraternity 
Who still will strive my daughter's mates to be, 
Staking their lives to win to eartWy bliss, 300 

The lonely maid, the friend of Artemis T' 

''0 King,'' he said, ''thou sayest the word indeed; 
Nor will I quit the strife till I have won 
My sweet delight, or death to end my need. 
And know that I am called Milanion,'' 305 

Of King Amphidamas the well-loved son : 
So fear not that to thy old name, O King, 
Much loss or shame my victory will bring." 

''Nay, Prince," said Schoeneus, "welcome to this land 
Thou wert indeed, if thou wert here to try 3io 

Thy strength 'gainst some one mighty of his hand ; 



198 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Nor would we grudge thee well-won mastery. 

But now, why wilt thou come to me to die, 

And at my door lay down thy luckless head, 

Swelling the band of the unhappy dead, 315 

^^ Whose curses even now my heart doth fear? 
Lo, I am old, and know what life can be. 
And what a bitter thing is death anear. 
O Son ! be wise, and hearken unto me. 
And if no other can be dear to thee, 320 

At least as now, yet is the world full wide, 
And bliss in seeming hopeless hearts may hide : 

^^But if thou losest life, then all is lost/^ 
'^Nay, King,^' Milanion said, ^Hhy words are vain. 
Doubt not that I have counted well the cost. 325 

But say, on what day will thou that I gain 
Fulfilled delight, or death to end my pain ? 
Right glad were I if it could be to-day, 
And all my doubts at rest forever lay.'' 

''Nay,'' said King Schoeneus, ''thus it shall not be. 
But rather shalt thou let a month go by, 33i 

And weary with thy prayers for victory 
What god thou know'st the kindest and most nigh. 
So doing, still perchance thou shalt not die: 
And with my good-will wouldst thou have the maid, 335 
For of the equal gods I grow afraid. 

"And until then, O Prince, be thou my guest. 
And all these troublous things awhile forget." 
"Nay," said he, "couldst thou give my soul good rest. 
And on mine head a sleepy garland set, 340 



ATALANTA^S RACE 199 

Then had I 'scaped the meshes of the net, 
Nor shouldst thou hear from me another word ; 
But now, make sharp thy fearful heading sword. 

^^ Yet will I do what son of man may do, 
And promise all the gods may most desire, 345 

That to myself I may at least be true; 
And on that day my heart and limbs so tire. 
With utmost strain and measureless desire. 
That, at the worst, I may but fall asleep 
When in the sunlight round that sword shall sweep/' 350 

He went wdth that, nor anywhere would bide, 
But unto Argos° restlessly did wend; 
And there, as one who lays all hope aside. 
Because the leech has said his life must end. 
Silent farewell he bade to foe and friend, 355 

And took biq wav unto the restless sea, 
For there he deemea lai- ^^ot and help might be. 

Upon the shore of Argolis there stands 
A temple to the goddess that he sought. 
That, turned unto the lion-bearmg lands, ^^" 

Fenced from the east, of cold winds hath no thought, 
Thouo'h to no homestead there the sheaves are brought, 
No gi'oaning press torments the close-chpped murk, 
Lonely the fane stands, far from all men's work. 

Pass through a close, set thick with myrtle-trees, 365 
Through the brass doors that guard the holy place, 
And entering, hear the washing of the seas 
That twice a day rise high above the base. 



200 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

And with the southwest urging them, embrace 

The marble feet of her that standeth there, 370 

That shrink not, naked though they be and fair. 

Small is the fane through which the sea-wind sings 
About Queen Venus' ° well-wrought image white, 
But hung around are many precious things. 
The gifts of those who, longing for delight, 375 

Have hung them there within the goddess' sight, 
And in return have taken at her hands 
The living treasures of the Grecian lands. 

And thither now has come Milanion, 
And showed unto the priests' wide-open eyes 380 
Gifts fairer than all those that there have shown, 
Silk cloths, inwrought with Indian fantasies, 
And bowls inscribed with sayings of the wise 
Above the deeds of foolish living thins:?!. 
And mirrors fit to bp +^- &^^^« ot kmgs. 385 

And now before the Sea-born One he stands, 
A i \m^^^^ veilmg smoke made dim and soft, 
And while the mcense trickles from his hands. 
And while the odorous smoke-wreaths hang aloft, 
ihus doth he pray to her : ^^ Thou, who oft 390 
Mast holpen^ man and maid in their distress 
Despise me not for this my wretchedness ! 

"0 goddess, among us who dwell below, 
Kings and great men, great for a little while, 
Have pity on the lowly heads that bow, 395 

Nor hate the hearts that love them without guile; 
VVilt thou be worse than these, and is thy smile 



ATALANTA'S RACE 201 

A vain device of him who set thee here, 
An empty dream of some artificer ? 

'^0 great one, some men love, and are ashamed; 400 
Some men are weary of the bonds of love ; 
Yea, and by some men lightly art thou blamed. 
That from thy toils their lives they cannot move, 
And 'mid the ranks of men their manhood prove, 
Alas ! O goddess, if thou slayest me 405 

What new immortal can I serve but thee ? 

'^ Think then, will it bring honor to thy head 
If folk say, 'Everything aside he cast 
And to all fame and honor was he dead, 
And to his one hope now is dead at last, 410 

Since all unholpen he is gone and past : 
Ah, the gods love not man, for certainly, 
He to his helper did not cease to cry/' 

''Nay, but thou wilt help; they who died before 
Not single-hearted as I deem came here, 415 

Therefore unthanked they laid their gifts before 
Thy stainless feet, still shivering with their fear, 
Lest in their e3^es their true thought might appear, 
Who sought to be the lords of that fair town, 
Dreaded of men and winners of renown. 420 

"0 Queen, thou knowest I pray not for this: 
0, set us down together in some place 
Where not a voice can break our heaven of bliss, 
Where naught but rocks and I can see her face. 
Softening beneath the marvel of thy grace, 425 

Where not a foot our vanished steps can track, — 
The golden age, the golden age come back ! 



202 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

^^0 fairest, hear me now, who do thy will, 
Plead for thy rebel that she be not slain. 
But live and love and be thy servant still : 430 

Ah, give her joy and take away my pain, 
And thus two long-enduring servants gain. 
An easy thing this is to do for me. 
What need of my vain w^ords to weary thee ! 

^' But none the less this place will I not leave 435 
Until I needs must go my death to meet. 
Or at thy hands some happy sign receive 
That in great joy we twain may one day greet 
Thy presence here and kiss thy silver feet. 
Such as we deem thee, fair beyond all words, 440 

Victorious o'er our servants and our lords/' 

Then from the altar back a space he drew. 
But from the Queen turned not his face away, 
But 'gainst a pillar leaned, until the blue 
That arched the sky, at ending of the day, 445 

Was turned to ruddy gold and changing gray. 
And clear, but low, the nigh-ebbed windless sea 
In the still evening murmured ceaselessly. 

And there he stood when all the sun was down, 
Nor had he moved, when the dim golden light, 450 

Like the far lustre of a godlike town, 
Had left the world to seeming hopeless night, 
Nor would he move the more when wan moonlight 
Streamed through the pillars for a Uttle while, 
And lighted up the white Queen's changeless smile. 455 

Naught noted he the shallow flowing sea 
As step by step it set the wrack a-swim, 



ATALANTA^S RACE 203 

The yellow torchlight nothing noted he 
Wherein with fluttering gown and half-bared limb 
The temple damsels sung their midnight hymn, 460 
And naught the doubled stillness of the fane 
When they were gone and all was hushed again. 

But when the waves had touched the marble base, 
And steps the fish swim over twice a day, 
The dawn beheld him sunken in his place 465 

Upon the floor ; and sleeping there he lay, 
Not heeding aught the little jets of spray 
The roughened sea brought nigh, across him cast; 
For as one dead all thought from him had passed. 

Yet long before the sun had showed his head, 470 
Long ere the varied hangings on the wall 
Had gained once more their blue and green and red, 
He rose as one some well-known sign doth call 
When war upon the city's gates doth fall, 
And scarce like one fresh risen out of sleep, 475 

He 'gan again his broken watch to keep. 

Then he turned round; not for the sea-gulPs cry 
That wheeled above the temple in his flight. 
Not for the fresh south-wind that lovingly 
Breathed on the new-born day and dying night, 480 
But some strange hope 'twixt fear and great delight 
Drew round his face, now flushed, now pale and wan. 
And still constrained his eyes the sea to scan. 

Now a faint light lit up the southern sky. 
Not sun or moon, for all the world was gray, ^«S5 

But this a bright cloud seemed, that drew anigh 



204 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Lighting the dull waves that beneath it lay- 
As toward the temple still it took its way, 
And still grew greater, till Milanion 
Saw naught for dazzling light that round him shone. 490 

But as he staggered with his arms outspread, 
Delicious unnamed odors breathed around, 
For languid happiness he bowed his head, 
And with wet eyes sank down upon the ground. 
Nor wished for aught, nor any dream he found 495 

To give him reason for that happiness, 
Or make him ask more knowledge of his bliss. 

At last his eyes were cleared, and he could see 
Through happy tears the goddess face to face 
With that faint image of Divinity, 500 

Whose well-wrought smile and dainty changeless grace 
Until that morn so gladdened all the place; 
Then he unwitting cried aloud her name. 
And covered up his eyes for fear and shame. 

But through the stillness he her voice could hear 505 
Piercing his heart with joy scarce bearable, 
That said, '' Milanion^ wherefore dost thou fear? 
I am not hard to those who love me well; 
List to what I a second time will tell, 
And thou mayest hear perchance, and live to save 5io 
The cruel maiden from a loveless grave. 

^' See, by my feet three golden apples lie — 
Such fruit among the heavy roses falls, 
Such fruit my watchful damsels carefully 
Store up within the best loved of my walls, 5i5 



ATALANTA'S RACE 205 

Ancient Damascus,^ where the lover calls 
Above my unseen head, and faint and light 
The rose-leaves flutter round me in the night. 

^^ And note, that these are not alone most fair 
With heavenly gold, but longing strange they bring 520 
Unto the hearts of men, who will not care, 
Beholding these, for any once-loved thing 
Till round the shining sides their fingers cling. 
And thou shalt see thy well-girt svvdftfoot m.aid 
By sight of these amid her glory stayed. 525 

*' For bearing these within a scrip with thee. 
When first she heads thee from the starting-place 
Cast down the first one for her eyes to see. 
And when she turns aside make on apace, 
And if again she heads thee in the race 530 

Spare not the other two to cast aside 
If she not long enough behind will bide. 

'^ Farewell, and when has come the happy time 
That she Diana's raiment must unbind 
And all the world seems blessed with Saturn's^ clime, 535 
And thou with eager arms about her twined 
Beholdest first her gray eyes growing kind, 
Surely, trembler, thou shalt scarcel}^ then 
Forget the Helper of unhappy men.'' 

Milanion raised his head at this last word, 540 

For now so soft and kind she seemed to be 
No longer of her Godhead was he feared ; 
Too late he looked, for nothing could he see 
But the white image glimmering doubtfully 



206 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

In the departing twilight cold and gray, 545 

And those three apples on the steps that lay. 

These then he caught up quivering with deHght, 
Yet fearful lest it all might be a dream, 
And though aweary with the watchful night, 
And sleepless nights of longing, still did deem 550 

He could not sleep ; but yet the first sunbeam 
That smote the fane across the heaving deep 
Shone on him laid in calm untroubled sleep. 

But little ere the noontide did he rise, 
x\nd why he felt so happy scarce could tell ^ob 

Until the gleaming apples met his eyes. 
Then, leaving the fair place where this befell, 
Oft he looked back as one who loved it well. 
Then homeward to the haunts of men ^gan wend 
To bring all things unto a happy end. 560 



Now has the lingering month at last gone by/ 
Again are all folk round the running-place, 
Nor other seems the dismal pageantry 
Than heretofore, but that another face 
Looks o'er the smooth course ready for the race, 565 
For now, beheld of all, Milanion 
Stands on the spot he twice has looked upon. 

But yet — what change is this that holds the maid? 
Does she indeed see in his glittering eye 
More than disdain of the sharp shearing blade, 570 

Some happy hope of help and victory ? 
The others seemed to sa}^ '^ We come to die. 



ATALANTA^S RACE 207 

Look down upon us for a little while, 

That, dead, we may bethink us of thy smile/' 

But he — what look of mastery was this 575 

He cast on her ? why were his lips so red ? 
Why was his face so flushed with happiness ? 
So looks not one who deems himself but dead, 
E'en if to death he bows a willing head; 
So rather looks a god well pleased to find 580 

Some earthly damsel fashioned to his mind. 

Why must she drop her lids before his gaze, 
And even as she casts adown her eyes 
Redden to note his eager glance of praise, 
And wish that she w^ere clad in other guise ? 585 

Why must the memory to her heart arise 
Of things unnoticed when they first were heard. 
Some lover's song, some answering maiden's word? 

What makes these longings, vague, without a name, 
And this vain pity never felt before, 590 

This sudden languor, this contempt of fame, 
This tender sorrow for the time past o'er. 
These doubts that grow each minute more and more ? 
Why does she tremble as the time grows near, 
And weak defeat and woful victory fear ? 595 

But while she seemed to hear her beating heart. 
Above their heads the trumpet blast rang out. 
And forth they sprang; and she must play her part; 
Then flew her w^hite feet, knowing not a doubt. 
Though, slackening once, she turned her head about, 600 
But then she cried aloud and faster fled 
Than e'er before, and all men deemed him dead. 



208 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

But with no sound he raised aloft his hand, 
And thence what seemed a ray of Ught there flew 
And past the maid rolled on along the sand; 605 

Then trembling she her feet together drew, 
And in her heart a strong desire there grew 
To have the toy; some god she thought had given 
That gift to her, to make of earth a heaven. 

Then from the course with eager steps she ran, 6io 
And in her odorous bosom laid the gold. 
But when she turned again, the great-limbed man 
Now well ahead she failed not to behold, 
And, mindful of her glory waxing cold. 
Sprang up and followed him in hot pursuit, 615 

Though with one hand she touched the golden fruit. 

Note, too, the bow that she was wont to bear 
She laid aside to grasp the glittering prize. 
And o'er her shoulder from the quiver fair • 
Three arrows fell and lay before her eyes 620 

Unnoticed, as amidst the people's cries 
She sprang to head the strong Milanion, 
Who now the turning-post had well-nigh won. 

But as he set his mighty hand on it 
White fingers underneath his own were laid, 625 

And white limbs from his dazzled eyes did flit; 
Then he the second fruit cast by the maid. 
But she ran on awhile, then as afraid 
Wavered and stopped, and turned and made no stay, 
Until the globe with its bright fellow lay. 630 

Then, as a troubled glance she cast around, 
Now far ahead the Argive could she see. 



ATALANTA'S RACE 209 

And in her garment^s hem one hand she wound 
To keep the double prize, and strenuously 
Sped o'er the course, and little doubt had she 635 
To win the day, though now but scanty space 
Was left betwixt him and the winning-place. 

Short was the way unto such winged feet, 
Quickty she gained upon him, till at last 
He turned about her eager eyes to meet 640 

And from his hand the third fair apple cast. 
She wavered not, but turned and ran so fast 
After the prize that should her bliss fulfil, 
That in her hand it lay ere it was still. 

Nor did she rest, but turned about to win, 645 

Once more, an unblest woful victory — 
And yet — and 3^et — why does her breath begin 
To fail her, and her feet drag heavily ? 
Why fails she now to see if far or nigh 
The goal is? why do her gray e^^es grow dim? 650 
Why do these tremors run through every limb ? 

She spreads her arms abroad some stay to find. 
Else must she fall, indeed, and findeth this, 
A strong man's arms about her body twined. 
Nor may she shudder now to feel his kiss, 655 

So wrapped she is in new unbroken bliss : 
Made happy that the foe the prize hath won, 
She weeps glad tears for all her glor}^ done. 



Shatter the trumpet, hew adown the posts ! 
Upon the brazen altar break the sword, 660 



210 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

And scatter incense to appease the ghosts 

Of those who died here by their own award. 

Bring forth the image of the mighty Lord, 

And her who unseen o'er the runners hung, 

And did a deed forever to be sung. 665 

Here are the gathered folk, make no delay. 
Open King Schoeneus' well-filled treasury, 
Bring out the gifts long hid from light of day. 
The golden bowls overwrought with imagery. 
Gold chains, and unguents brought fromx over sea, 670 
The saffron gown the old Phoenician^ brought. 
Within the temple of the Goddess wTought. 

O ye, O damsels, who shall never see 
Her, that Love's servant bringeth now to you, 
Returning from another victory, 675 

In some cool bower do all that now is due ! 
Since she in token of her service new 
Shall give to Venus offerings rich enow, 
Her maiden zone, her arrows, and her bow. 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS 211 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS 

It was the schooner Hesperus^ 

That sailed the wintry sea ; 
And the skipper had taken his httle daughter, 

To bear him company. 

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, 5 

Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds. 

That ope in the month of May. 

The skipper he stood beside the helm, 

His pipe was in his mouthy lo 

And he watched how the veering flaw did blow 

The smoke now West, now South. 

Then up and spake an old sailor, - 

Had sailed the Spanish Main, 
^' I pray thee, put into yonder port, 15 

For I fear a hurricane. 

'^ Last night, the moon had a golden ring. 

And to-night no moon we see ! ^' 
The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe. 

And a scornful laugh laughed he. 20 

Colder and louder blew the wind, 
A gale from the Northeast; 



212 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

The snow fell hissing in the brine, 
And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm, and smote amain, 25 

The vessel in its strength ; 
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed. 

Then leaped her cable's length. 

^' Come hither ! come hither! my little daughter, 
And do not tremble so ; 30 

For I can weather the roughest gale. 
That ever wind did blow.'' 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat 

Against the stinging blast; 
He cut a rope from a broken spar, 35 

And bound her to the mast. 

^^0 father ! I hear the church-bells ring, 

say, what may it be? " 
'^ 'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast ! '' — 
And he steered for the open sea. 40 



" father ! I hear the sound of guns, 

say, what may it be? " 
'^ Some ship in distress, that cannot live 

In such an angry sea ! " 

" father ! I see a gleaming light, 45 

O say, what may it be? " 
But the father answered never a word, 
. A frozen corpse was he. 

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark. 

With his face turned to the skies, 50 



THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS 213 

The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow 
On his fixed and glassy eyes. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed 

That saved she might be; 
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave. 

On the Lake of Galilee. 56 

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, 
Through the whistling sleet and snow^, 

Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 

Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. 60 

And ever the fitful gusts between, 

A sound came from the land ; 
It was the sound of the trampling surf, 

On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 

The breakers were right beneath her bows, 65 

She drifted a dreary wreck, 
And a whooping billow swept the crew 

Like icicles from her deck. 

She struck where the white and fleecy waves 
Looked soft as carded wool, 70 

But the cruel rocks, they gored her side 
Like the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 

With the masts went by the board; 
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, 75 

Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared ! 

At daybreak on the bleak sea-beach, 
A fisherman stood aghast, 



214 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

To see the form of a maiden fair, 

Lashed close to a drifting mast. 80 

The salt-sea was frozen on her breast, 

The salt tears in her eyes; 
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, 

On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 85 

In the midnight and the snow ! 
Christ save us all from a death like this, 

On the reef of Norman's Woe ! 



PAUL REVERE'S RIDE 

Listen, my children, and you shall hear 

Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, ° 

On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; 

Hardly a man is now alive 

Who remembers that famous day and year. ^ 5 

He said to his friend, ^' If the British march 

By land or sea from the town to-night. 

Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch 

Of the North Church^ tower as a signal light, — 

One, if by land, and two, if by sea; lo 

And I on the opposite shore will be. 

Ready to ride and spread the alarm 

Through every Middlesex village and farm. 

For the country-folk to be up and arm.'' 

Then he said, ^^ Good night ! " and with muffled oar 15 
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, 



PAUL REVERE^ S RIDE 215 

Just as the moon rose over the bay, 

Where swinging wide at her moorings lay 

The Somerset, British man-of-war; 

A phantom ship, with each mast and spar 20 

Across the moon like a prison bar 

And a huge black hulk, that was magnified 

By its own reflection in the tide. 

Meanwhile his friend, through alley and street, 
Wanders and watches with eager ears, 25 

Till in the silence around him he hears 
The muster of men at the barrack door. 
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, 
And the measured tread of the grenadiers, 
Marching down to their boats on the shore. 30 

Then he climbed to the tower of the church, 

Up the wooden stairs with stealthy tread, 

To the belfry-chamber overhead. 

And startled the pigeons from their perch 

On the sombre rafters, that round him made 35 

Masses and moving shapes of shade, — 

Up the trembling ladder, steep and tall, 

To the highest window in the wall, 

Where he paused to listen and look down 

A moment on the roofs of the town, 40 

And the moonlight flowing over all. 

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, 

In their night-encampment on the hill, 

W^rapped in silence so deep and still 

That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, 45 

The watchful night-wind, as it w^en^t 



216 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Creeping along from tent to tent, 

And seeming to whisper, ^^ All is well ! '' 

A moment only he feels the spell 

Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread 50 

Of the lonely belfry and the dead; 

For suddenly all his thoughts are bent 

On a shadowy something far away. 

Where the river widens to meet the bay, — 

A line of black that bends and floats _ 55 

On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. 

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, 

Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride 

On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. 

Now he patted his horse's side, 60 

Now gazed at the landscape far and near. 

Then impetuous, stamped the earth. 

And turned and tightened his saddle-girth ; 

But mostly he watched with eager search 

The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, 65 

As it rose above the graves on the hill. 

Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. 

And lo ! as he looks, on the belfry's height 

A glimmer, and then a gleam of light ! 

He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, 70 

But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight ^ 

A second lamp in the belfry burns ! I 

A hurry of hoofs in a village street, 

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark. 

And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark 75 

Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet ; 

That was all ! And yet, through the gloom and the light. 



PAUL REVERE'S RIDE 217 

The fate of a nation was riding that night ; 

And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, 

Kindled the land into flame with its heat. so 

He has left the village and mounted the steep, 

And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, 

Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides ; 

And under the alders, that skirt its edge. 

Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, 85 

Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. 

It was twelve by the village clock 

When he crossed the bridge into Medford^ town. 

He heard the crowing of the cock, 

And the barking of the farmer's dog, 90 

And felt the damp of the river fog. 

That rises after the sun goes down. 



It was one by the village clock. 

When he galloped into Lexington. 

He saw the gilded weathercock 95 

Swim in the moonlight as he passed. 

And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, 

Gaze at him with a spectral glare, 

As if they already stood aghast 

At the bloody work they would look upon. loo 

It was two by the village clock. 

When he came to the bridge in Concord^ town. 

He heard the bleating of the flock, 

And the twitter of birds among the trees, 

And felt the breath of the morning breeze 105 

Blowing over the meadows brown. 



218 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

And one was safe and asleep in his bed 

WIio at the bridge would be first to fall, 

Who that day would be lying dead, 

Pierced by a British musket-ball. no 

You know the rest. In the books you have read, 
How the British Regulars fired and fled, — 
How the farmers gave them ball for ball, 
From behind each fence and farmyard wall. 
Chasing the red-coats down the lane, 115 

Then crossing the fields to emerge again 
Under the trees at the turn of the road, 
And only pausing to fire and load. 

So through the night rode Paul Revere; 

And so through the night went his cry of alarm 120 

To every Middlesex village and farm, — 

A cry of defiance and not of fear, 

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, 

And a word that shall echo forevermore ! 

For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, 125 

Through all our history, to the last, 

In the hour of darkness and peril and need, 

The people will waken and listen to hear 

The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed. 

And the midnight message of Paul Revere. 130 



SKIPPER IRESON^S RIDE 219 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 

SKIPPER IRESON^S RIDE 

Of all the rides since the birth of time. 
Told in story or sung in rhyme, — 
On Apuleius's Golden AsS;° 
Or one-eyed Calender's horse of brass,^ 
Witch astride of a human back, 5 

Islam's prophet on Al-Borak,° — 
The strangest ride that ever was sped 
Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead ! 
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart lo 
By the women of Marblehead ! 

Body of turkey, head of owl, 

Wings a-droop hke a rained-on fowl. 

Feathered and ruffled in every part, 

Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. 15 

Scores of women, old and young, 

Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue. 

Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane. 

Shouting and singing the shrill refrain : 

'^Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 20 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead ! " 

Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, 
Girls in bloom of cheek and lips, 



220 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase 25 

Bacchus^ round some antique vase, 

Brief of skirt, with ankles bare, 

Loose of kerchief and loose of hair, 

With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns^ twang. 

Over and over the MiEnads^ sang: 30 

^^ Here's Flud Oirson, fur his hbrrd horrt, 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead ! " 

Small pity for him ! — He sailed away 
From a leaking ship in Chaleur Bay,° — 35 

Sailed away from a sinking wreck, 
With his own town's-people on her deck ! 
^^ La}^ by ! lay by ! " they called to him. 
Back he answered, ^^ Sink or swim ! 
Brag of your catch of fish again ! " 40 

And off he sailed through the fog and rain ! 
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart. 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 

Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur 45 

That wreck shall lie forevermore. 
Mother and sister, wife and maid, 
Looked from the rocks of Marblehead 
Over the moaning and rainy sea, — 
Looked for the coming that might not be ! 50 

What did the winds and the sea-birds say 
Of the cruel captain who sailed away? — 
Old Floyd L'eson, for his hard heart. 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 55 



SKIPPER IRESON^S RIDE 221 

Through the street, on either side, 
Up flew windows, doors swung wide; 
Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray, 
Treble lent the fish-horn's bray. 
Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound, 60 

Hulks of old sailors run aground. 
Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane. 
And cracked with curses the hoarse" refrain: 
'^Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 
Torrid an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 65 
By the women o' Morble'ead ! " 

Sweetly along the Salem road 

Bloom of orchard and lilac showed. 

Little the wicked skipper knew 

Of the fields so green and the sky so blue. 70 

Riding there in his sorry trim. 

Like an Indian idol glum and grim, 

Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear 

Of voices shouting, far and near : 

'^ Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 75 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead ! " 

'^ Hear me, neighbors ! " at last he cried, — 
^^ What to me is this noisy ride? 
What is the shame that clothes the skin so 

To the nameless horror that lives within ? 
Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck, 
And hear a cry from a reeling deck ! 
Hate me and curse me, — I only dread 
The hand of God and the face of the dead ! " 85 
Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 



222 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 

Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea 
Said, ^^ God has touched him ! why should we? '^ 90 
Said an old wife mourning her only son, 
'^Cut the rogue's tether and let him run ! '^ 
So with soft relentings and rude excuse, 
Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose, 
And gave him a cloak to hide him in, 95 

And left him alone with his shame and sin. 
Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 

BARCLAY OF URY 

Up the streets of Aberdeen^ 
By the kirk° and college green 

Rode the Laird° of Ury. 
Close behind him, close beside, 
Foul of mouth and evil-eyed, 5 

Pressed the mob in fury. 

Flouted him the drunken churl, 
Jeered at him the serving-girl. 

Prompt to please her master; 
And the begging carlin,° late lo 

Fed and clothed at Ury's gate," 

Cursed him as he passed her. 

Yet, with calm and stately mien, 
Up the streets of Aberdeen 

Came he slowly riding; 15 



BARCLAY OF URT 223 

And, to all he saw and heard, 
Answering not with bitter word, 
Turning not for chiding. 

Came a troop with broadswords swinging, 
Bits and bridles sharply ringing, 20 

Loose and free and froward; 
Quoth the foremost, ^ Ride him down ! 
Push him ! prick him ! through the town 

Drive the Quaker coward ! ' 

But from out the thickening crowd 25 

Cried a sudden voice and loud : 

' Barclay ! Ho ! a Barclay ! ' 
And the old man at his side 
Saw a comrade, battle tried, 

Scarred and sunburned darkly, 30 

Who with ready weapon bare. 
Fronting to the troopers there, 

Cried aloud : ' God save us, 
Call ye coward him who stood 
Ankle deep in Lutzen's° blood, 35 

With the brave Gustavus ? ' 

' Nay, I do not need thy sword. 
Comrade mine,'' said Ury's lord; 

^ Put it up, I pray thee : 
Passive to his holy will, 40 

Trust I in my Master still. 

Even though He slay me. 

' Pledges of thy love and faith. 
Proved on many a field of death, 

Not by me are needed.' 45 



224 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Marvelled much that henchman bold, 
That his laird, so stout of old. 
Now so meekly pleaded. 

' Woe^s the day ! ^ he sadly said, 

With a slowly shaking head, 60 

And a look of pity ; 
' Ury's honest lord reviled, 
Mock of knave and sport of child, 

In his own good city ! 

^ Speak the word, and, master mine, 55 

As we charged on Tilly's^ line, 

And his Walloon^ lancers. 
Smiting through their midst we'll teach 
Civil look and decent speech 

To these boyish prancers ! ' 60 

' Marvel not, mine ancient friend, 
Like beginning, like the end,' 

Quoth the Laird of Ury; 
' Is the sinful servant more 
Than his gracious Lord who bore 65 

Bonds and stripes in Jewry ? 

' Give me joy that in his name 
I can bear, with patient frame. 

All these vain ones offer; 
While for them He suffereth long, 70 

Shall I answer wrong with wrong. 

Scoffing with the scoffer ? 

' Happier I, with loss of all, 
Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall, 

With few friends to greet me, 75 



i 



BARCLAY OF URY 225 

Than when reeve and squire were seen, 
Riding out from Aberdeen, 

With bared heads to meet me. 

*■ When each goodwife, o'er and o'er, 

Blessed me as I passed her door; so 

And the snooded° daughter, 
Through her casement glancing down. 
Smiled on him who bore renown 

From red fields of slaughter. 

' Hard to feel the stranger's scoff, 85 

Hard the old friend's falling off. 

Hard to learn forgiving; 
But the Lord his ov\^n rewards, 
And his love with theirs accords. 

Warm and fresh and living. 90 

' Through this dark and stormy night 
Faith beholds a feeble light 

Up the blackness streaking; 
Knowing God's own time is best. 
In a patient hope I rest 95 

For the full day-breaking ! ' 

So the Laird of Ury said, 
Turning slow his horse's head 

Towards the Tolbooth° prison, 
Where, through iron gates, he heard lOO 

Poor disciples of the Word 

Preach of Christ arisen ! 

Not in vain, Confessor old. 
Unto us the tale is told 

Of thy day of trial ; 105 



226 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Every age on him who strays 
From its broad and beaten ways 
Pours its seven-fold vial. 

Happy he whose inward ear 

Angel comfortings can hear, no 

O'er the rabble's laughter; 
And while Hatred's fagots burn, 
Glimpses through the smoke discern 

Of the good hereafter. 

Knowing this, that never yet 115 

Share of Truth was vainly set 

In the world's wide fallow®; 
After hands shall sow the seed. 
After hands from hill and mead 

Reap the harvests yellow. 120 

Thus, with somewhat of the Seer, 
Must the moral pioneer 

From the Future borrow; 
Clothe the waste with dreams of grain, 
And, on midnight's sky of rain, 125 

Paint the golden morrow ! 



BARBARA FRIETCHIE 

Up from the meadows rich with corn, 
Clear in the cool September morn, 

The clustered spires of Frederick stand 
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. 



BARBARA FRIETCHIE 227 

Round about them orchards sweep, 5 

Apple and peach tree fruited deep, 

Fair as the garden of the Lord 

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde. 

On that pleasant morn of the early fall 

When Lee marched over the mountain-wall ; lo 

Over the mountains winding down, 
Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 

Forty flags with their silver stars, 
Forty flags with their crimson bars. 

Flapped in the morning wind : the sun 15 

Of noon looked down, and saw not one. 

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, 
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten ; 

Bravest of all in Frederick town, 

She took up the flag the men hauled down ; 20 

In her attic window the staff she set. 
To show that one heart was loyal yet. 

Up the street came the rebel tread, 
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 

Under his slouched hat left and right 25 

He glanced; the old flag met his sight. 

' Halt ! ^ — the dust-brown ranks stood fast. 
' Fire ! ' — out blazed the rifle-blast. 



228 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

It shivered the window, pane and sash; 

It rent the banner with seam and gash. 30 

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff 
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf. 

She leaned far out on the window-sill, 
And shook it forth with a royal will. 

* Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, 35 

But spare your country's flag,' she said. 

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, 
Over the face of the leader came; 

The nobler nature within him stirred 

To life at that woman's deed and word; 40 

' Who touches a hair of yon gray head 
Dies like a dog I March on ! ' he said. 

All day long through Frederick street 
Sounded the tread of marching feet: 

All day long that free flag tost 45 

Over the heads of the rebel host. 

Ever its torn folds rose and fell 

On the loyal winds that loved it well ; 

And through the hill-gaps sunset light 

Shone over it with a warm good-night. 50 

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, 

And the Rebel rides on his raids no more. 



BARBARA FRIETCHIE 229 

Honor to her ! and let a tear 

Fall, for her sake, on StonewalFs bier. 

Over Barbara Frietchie^s grave, 55 

Flag of Freedom and Union, wave ! 

Peace and order and beauty draw 
Round thy symbol of light and law; 

And ever the stars above look down 

On thy stars below in Frederick town ! 60 



230 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 

GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER 
HILL BATTLE 

As SHE SAW IT FROM THE BELFRY 

'Tis like stirring living embers when, at eighty, one 

remembers 
All the achings and the quakings of ^^ the times that 

tried men's souls°; " 
When I talk of Whig and Tory,^ when I tell the Rebel 

story, 
To you the words are ashes, but to me they're burning 

coals. 

I had heard the muskets' rattle of the April running 

battle^; ^ 5 

Lord Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see their red coats 

still; 
But a deadly chill comes o'er me, as the day looms up 

before me, 
When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes of 

Bunker's Hill. 

'Twas a peaceful summer's morning, when the first 

thing gave us warning 
Was the booming of the cannon from the river and the 

shore : lo 

'' Child," says grandma, ^^ what's the matter, what is 

all this noise and clatter? 
Have those scalping Indian devils come to murder us 

once more?" 



GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL BATTLE 231 

Poor old soul! my sides were shaking in the midst of 
all my quaking, 

To hear her talk of Indians when the guns began to 
roar: 

She had seen the burning village, and the slaughter and 
the pillage, is 

When the Mohawks^ killed her father wath their bul- 
lets through his door. 

Then I said, '^ Now, dear old granny, don^t you fret 

and worry any. 
For I'll soon come back and tell you whether this is 

work or play ; 
There can't be mischief in it, so I won't be gone a 

minute '' — 
For a minute then I started. I was gone the livelong 

day. 20 

No time for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass grima- 
cing; 

Down my hair went as I hurried, tumbling half-way to 
my heels; 

God forbid your ever knowing, when there's blood 
around her flowing, 

How the lonely, helpless daughter of a quiet house- 
hold feels ! 

In the street I heard a thumping; and I knew it was 
the stumping 25 

Of the Corporal, our old neighbor, on the wooden leg 
he wore, 

With a knot of women round him, — it was lucky I 
had found him, 



232 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

So I followed \\\x\\ the others, and the Corporal marched 
before. 

They were making for the steeple, — the old soldier 
and his people; 

The pigeons circled round us as we climbed the creak- 
ing stair, 30 

Just across the narrow river — Oh, so close it made me 
shiver ! — 

Stood a fortress on the hill-top that but yesterday w^as 
bare. 

Not slow our eyes to find it ; well we knew who stood 
behind it, 

Though the earthw^ork hid them from us, and the stub- 
born walls were dumb : 

Here were sister, wife, and mother, looking wild upon 
each other, 35 

And their lips were white with terror as they said, 

THE HOUR HAS COME ! 

The morning slowly wasted, not a morsel had we 

tasted. 
And our heads were almost splitting with the cannons' 

deafening thrill. 
When a figure tall and stately round the rampart strode 

sedately; 
It was Prescott, one since told me; he commanded on 

the hill. 40 

Every woman's heart grew bigger when we saw his 

manly figure, 
With the banyan^ buckled round it, standing up so 

straight and tall; 



GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL RATTLE 233 

Like a gentleman of leisure who is strolling out for 

pleasure, 
Through the storm of shells and cannon-shot he walked 

around the wall. 

At eleven the streets were swarming, for the red-coats' 

ranks were forming; 45 

At noon in marching order they were moving to the 

piers ; 
How the bayonets gleamed and glistened, as we looked 

far down, and listened 
To the trampling and the drum-beat of the belted 

grenadiers ! 

At length the men have started, with a cheer (it seemed 

faint-hearted), 
In their scarlet regimentals, with their knapsacks on 

their backs, 50 

And the reddening, rippling water, as after a sea-fight's 

slaughter, 
Round the barges gliding onward blushed like blood 

along their tracl^s. 

So they crossed to the other border, and again they 

formed in order; 
And the boats came back for soldiers, came for soldiers, 

soldiers still : 
The time seemed everlasting to us women faint and 

fasting, — 55 

At last they're moving, marching, marching proudly 

up the hill. 

We can see the bright steel glancing all along th^ lines 
advancing — . 



234 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Now the front rank fires a volley — they have thrown 

away their shot ; 
For behind their earthwork lying, all the balls above 

them flying, 
Our people need not hurry; so they wait and answer 

not. 60 

Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he would swear 

sometimes and tipple) , — 
He had heard the bullets whistle (in the old French 

war) before, — 
Calls out in words of jeering, just as if they all were 

hearing, — 
And his wooden leg thumps fiercely on the dusty belfry 

floor : — 

'^ Oh ! fire away, ye villains, and earn King George^s 
shillings, 65 

But ye'll waste a ton of powder afore a ^ rebel' falls; 

You may bang the dirt and welcome, they^re as safe 
as Dan'l Malcolm° 

Ten foot beneath the gravestone that youVe splin- 
tered with 3^our balls ! '^ 

In the hush of expectation, in the awe and trepidation 

Of the dread approaching moment, we are well-nigh 
breathless all; 70 

Though the rotten bars are failing on the rickety bel- 
fry railing. 

We are crowding up against them like the waves against 
a wall. 

Just a glimpse (the air is clearer), they are nearer, 
— nearer; — nearer, 



GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL BATTLE 235 

When a flash — a curhng smoke-wreath — then a 

crash — the steeple shakes — 
The deadly truce is ended; the tempest's shroud is 

rended ; 75 

Like a morning mist is gathered, like a thunder-cloud 

it breaks ! 

O the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black smoke 

blows over ! 
The red-coats stretched in windrows as a mower rakes 

his hay; 
Here a scarlet heap is lying, there a headlong crowd 

is flying 
Like a billow that has broken and is shivered into 

spray. 80 

Then we cried, '^ The troops are routed ! they are 

beat — it can't be doubted ! 
God be thanked, the fight is over ! '' — Ah ! the grim 

old soldier's smile ! 
^' Tell us, tell us why you look so?'' (we could hardly 

speak we shook so), — 
'^ Are thev beaten? Are they beaten? Are they 

beaten? " — '' Wait a while." 

the trembling and the terror ! for too soon we saw 

our error : 85 

They are bafl^ed, not defeated; we have driven them 

back in vain; 
And the columns that were scattered, round the colors 

that were tattered, 
Toward the sullen silent fortress turn their belted 

breasts again. 



236 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

All at once, as we were gazing, lo ! the roofs of Charles- 
town blazing ! 

They have fired the harmless village; in an hour it 
will be down ! 90 

The Lord in Heaven confound them, rain His fire and 
brimstone round them, — 

The robbing, murdering red-coats, that would burn a 
peaceful town ! 

They are marching, stern and solemn; we can see 

each massive column 
As they near the naked earth-mound with the slanting 

w^alls so steep. 
Have our soldiers got faint-hearted, and in noiseless 

haste departed ? 95 

Are they panic-struck and helpless ? Are they palsied 

or asleep ? 

Now ! the walls they're almost under ! scarce a rod 

the foes asunder ! 
Not a firelock flashed against them ! up the earthwork 

they will swarm ! 
But the words have scarce been spoken when the 

ominous calm is broken. 
And a bellowing crash has emptied all the vengeance 

of the storm ! lOO 

So again, with murderous slaughter, pelted backwards 

to the water, 
Fly Pigot's running heroes and the frightened braves 

of Howe; 
And we shout, ^'At last they're done for, it's their 

barges they have run for : 



GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL BATTLE T61 

They are beaten, beaten, beaten; and the battle's over 

now ! '^ 

And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the rough old 

soldier's features, 105 

Our lips afraid to question, but he knew what we 

would ask: 
''Not sure,'' he said; ''keep quiet, — once more, I 

guess, they'll try it — 
Here's damnation to the cut-throats ! " then he handed 

me his flask, 

Saying, " Gal, you're looking shak}^; have a drop of 

Old Jamaiky; 
I'm afeared there'll be more trouble afore the job is 

done;" no 

So I took one scorching swallow; dreadful faint I felt 

and hollow, 
Standing there from early morning when the firing 

was begun. 

All through those hours of trial I had watched a calm 

clock dial. 
As the hands kept creeping, creeping, — they were 

creeping round to four, 
When the old man said, " They're forming with their 

bayonets fixed for storming: 115 

It's the death-grip that's a-coming, — they will try 

the works once more." 

With brazen trumpets blaring, the flames behind them 

glaring. 
The deadly wall before them, in close array they come; 



238 ENGLISH NARRATIVE POEMS 

Still onward^ upward toiling, like a dragon^s fold un- 
coiling, — 

Like the rattlesnake's shrill warning the reverberating 
drum ! 120 

Over heaps all torn and gory — shall I tell the fearful 
story, 

How they surged above the breastwork, as a sea breaks 
over a deck; 

How, driven, yet scarce defeated, our worn-out men 
retreated, 

With their powder-horns all emptied, like the swim- 
mers from a wreck ? 

It has all been told and painted; as for me, they say 

I fainted, 125 

And the wooden-legged old Corporal stumped with me 

down the stair : 
When I woke from dreams affrighted the evening lamps 

were lighted, — 
On the floor a youth was lying; his bleeding breast 

was bare. 

And I heard through all the flurry, '' Send for War- 
ren ! hurry ! hurry ! 

Tell him here's a soldier bleeding, and he'll come and 
dress his wound !'' 130 

Ah, we knew not till the morrow told its tale of death 
and sorrow, 

How the starlight found him stiffened on the dark 
and bloody ground. 

Who the youth was, what his name was, where the 
place from which he came was, 



GRANDMOTHER^ S STORY OF B UNKER HILL BATTLE 239 

Who had brought him from the battle, and had left 

him at our door, 
He could not speak to tell us; but 'twas one of our 

brave fellows, 135 

As the homespun plainly showed us which the dying 

soldier wore. 

For they all thought he was dying, as they gathered 

round him crying, — 
And they said, ^^ Oh, how they'll miss him!'' and, 

'' What will his mother do ? '^' 
Then, his eyelids just unclosing like a child's that has 

been dozing, 
He faintly murmured, '^ Mother ! " — and — I saw his 

eyes were blue. 140 

— -^ Why, grandma, how you're winking ! '^ — Ah, my 

child, it sets me thinking 
Of a story not like this one. Well, he somehow lived 

along ; 
So we came to know each other, and I nursed him like 

a — mother. 
Till at last he stood before me, tall, and rosy-cheeked, 

and strong. 

And we sometimes walked together in the pleasant 

summer weather; 145 

— '^ Please to tell us what his name was?" — Just 

your own, my little dear. 
There's his picture Copley^ painted: we became so 

well acquainted, 
That, — in short, that's why I'm grandma, and you 

children are all here ! " 



NOTES • 

WILLIAM COWPER 

William Cowper was born at Great Berkhamstead, Hertford- 
shire, England, in 1731. He was educated first at a private 
school and afterwards at Westminster in London. He studied 
law, but his progress in the profession was blocked because of 
an attack of insanity brought on in 1763 by nervousness over 
an oral examination for a clerkship in the House of Commons. 
After fifteen months he recovered and went to live at Hunting- 
don, where he met the Unwin family and began what was to 
be a lifelong friendship with Mrs. Unv/in. Upon Mr. Unwinds 
death in 1767, Cowper moved with Mrs. Unwin to Olney, pass- 
ing a secluded life there until 1786. In 1773 he suffered a 
second attack of melancholia, which lasted sixteen months. 
Soon after his recovery he cooperated with the Rev. John 
Newton in writing the well-known Olney Hymns (1779). In 
1782 he published his first volume of poems, and a second volume 
followed in 1785, containing The Task, Tirocinium, and the 
ballad of John Gilpin. A translation of Homer was completed 
in 1791. After 1791 his reason became hopelessly deranged, 
and he passed the time until his death in 1800 in utter misery. 

Cowper was a man of kind and gentle character, a lover of 
nature in her milder aspects, and especially fond of animals. 
As one of the forerunners of the so-called Romantic move- 
ment in English poetry, his name is significant. Though at his 
best in work of a descriptive or satiric kind, he was also gifted 
with a subtle humor which appears frequently in many short 
R 241 



242 NOTES 

tales and ballads. A good biography of Cowper is that by 
Goldwin Smith in the English Men of Letters Series. 

The Diverting History of John Gilpin (Page 1) 

The story of John Gilpin was told to Cowper by his friend, 
Lady Austen, who had heard it when a child. The poet, upon 
whom the tale made a deep impression, eventually turned it 
into this ballad, which was first published anonymously in the 
Public Advertiser for November 14, 1782. It became popular 
at once, and is to-day probably the most widely known of the 
author's works. It is written in the conventional ballad metre, 
and preserves many expressions characteristic of the primitive 
English ballad style. 

3. Eke; also. 

11. Edmonton is a suburb a few miles directly north of 
London. 

16. After we. John Gilpin's wife does not hesitate to sacrifice 
grammar for the sake of rime. 

23. Calender; one who operates a calender, a machine for 
giving cloth or paper a smooth, glossy surface. 

39. Agog; eager. 

44. Cheapside was one of the most important of the old 
London streets. 

49. The saddletree is the frame of the saddle. 

115. Carries weight. The bottles seem to resemble the 
weights carried in horse races by the jockeys. 

133. Islington, now part of London, was then one of its 
suburbs. 

152. Ware is a town about fifteen miles north of London. 

178. Pin; mood. 

222. Amain; at full speed. 



NOTES 24.3 

236. The hue and cry; a term used to describe the rousing 
of the people in pursuit of a rogue. 

ROBERT BURNS 

Robert Burns was born of peasant parentage near Ayr, 
Scotland, on January 25, 1759. Up to the time when he was 
twenty-five years old he lived and worked on his father's 
farm, except for two short absences in near-by towns. While 
he was very young, he formed bad habits, from which he could 
never free himself, and which eventually wrecked his career. 
He was frequently in love, and many of the resulting entangle- 
ments brought him little but sorrow. In 1786, as a result of 
an unfortunate affair with Jean Armour, he determined to sail 
for America, and in order to raise the necessary money, pub- 
lished a volume of poems for which he vv^as paid twenty pounds. 
The book was received with enthusiasm and so elated Burns 
with his success, that he decided to remain in Scotland. He 
accepted an invitation to Edinburgh, where he was entertained 
ro3^ally by literary circles. However, he was compelled to 
return to farming, and after marrying Jean Armour took a 
tenancy at EUisland in 1788. A little later he was appointed 
exciseman, but his convi^dal tendencies were undermining his 
health, and he found his duties hard to attend to. He moved 
to Dumfries, where he died in poverty in 1796. 

Burns as a writer of songs, especially of love lyrics, is unsur- 
passed. He touched the depths of human passion as fev/ have 
ever done, and has made his poetry live in the hearts of the 
people. He is also the poet of Scottish peasant life, the enemy 
of oppression and tyranny, and the supporter of patriotism. 
Failure though he was from a worldly point of \aew, he was 
more unfortunate than culpable, and deserves our pity rather 
than our censure. 



244 NOTES 

Carlyle's Essay on Burns gives an excellent idea of the char- 
acter and work of the poet. 

Tam o' Shanter (Page 11) 

Written in 1790 in a single day and first published in 1791 
as a contribution to Grose's Antiquities of Scotland, it has 
been called '' a masterpiece of Scottish character, Scottish 
humor, Scottish witch-lore, and Scottish imagination." Burns 
himself considered it to be his finest poem. 

1. Chapman billies; pedlar fellows. 

2. Drouthy; thirsty. 

4. Tak the gate; take the road. 

5. Nappy; liquor. 

6. Fou; tipsy. Unco; very. 
8. Slaps; gates in fences. 

14. Frae; from. Ayr; a town in Ayrshire, Scotland, on the 
west coast about thirty miles south of Glasgow. Near it is 
the birthplace of Burns. 

19. Skellum; ne'er-do-well. 

20. Blethering; talking nonsense. Blellum; babbler. 

23. Ilka; every. Melder; corn or grain sent to the mill 
to be ground. 

25. Ca'd; driven. 

30. Doon; a river near Ayr immortalized in Burns's song, 
*' Ye banks and braes of bonny Doon." 

31. Warlocks; wizards. Mirk; dark. 

32. AUoway ; a small town near Ayr, Scotland. Kirk; church. 

33. Gars me greet; makes me weep. 

38. Planted; fixed. 

39. Ingle; fireside. 

40. Reaming swats; foaming new ale. 

41. Souter; shoemaker. 



NOTES 245 

68. Maun; must. 

78. The Deil; the Devil. 

81. Skelpit; hurried. Dub; puddle. 

86. Bogles; bogies or goblins. 

^S. Houlets; owls. 

90. Smoored; smothered. 

91. Birks; birches. Meikle stane; huge stone. 

93. Whins; furze bushes. Cairn; pile of stones. 

94. Bairn; child. 

102. Bleeze; blaze. 

103. Bore; hole. 

105. John Barleycorn; a Scotch term for whiskey. 

108. Usquebae; whiskey. 

110. Boddie; farthing. 

116. Brent; brought. 

117. Strathspeys. The strathspey was a Scottish dance. 
119. Winnock-bunker; window-seat. 

121. Towzie tyke; shaggy dog. 

123. Gart them skirl; made them shriek. 

124. Dirl; ring. 

127. Cantrip slight; magic charm. 
134. Gab; throat. 

147. Cleekit; took hold. 

148. Carlin; witch. 

149. Coost her duddies; threw off her clothes. 

150. Linket; tripped. Sark; shirt. 

151. Queans; young women. 

153. Creeshie flannen; greasy flannel. 

154. Seventeen-hunder linen; fine linen. Technical weaving 
terms were familiar to the hand-loom workers of Burns's district. 

157. Hurdles; hips. 

158. Burdies; maidens. 

159. Beldams; hags. 



246 NOTES 

160. Rigwoodie; ancient. Spean; wean. 

161. Crummock; a short staff. 

163. Brawlie; perfectly. 

164. Walie; large. 

165. Core; corps. 
169. Bear; barley. 

171. Cutty-sark; short shirt. Paisley harn; a coarse cloth, 
made in Paisley, a Scotch town famous for its cloth-making 
industry. 

174. Vauntie; proud. 

176. Coft; bought. 

181. Lap and flang; leapt and capered* 

184. E'en; eyes. 

185. Fidged fu' fain; fidgeted with eagerness. 

186. Hotched; jerked his arm while playing the bagpipe. 

187. Syne; then. 

188. Tint; lost. 

193. Fyke; fret. 

194. Byke; hive. 

200. Eldritch; unearthly. 

201. Fair in'; reward. 

208. According to an old superstition, witches are unable to 
pursue their Adctims over running water. Compare the story 
of the Headless Horseman in Irving 's The Legend of Sleepy 
Hollow. 

213. Ettle; aim. 

WALTER SCOTT 

Walter Scott was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, in 1771, 
of an old Border family. Up to the age of four he was rather 
feeble, an attack of fever having left him with a shrunken 
right leg. This disability, though it did not prevent his be- 
coming a strong, sturdy man, still gave him ample leisure for 



NOTES 247 

wide reading while he was young. In high school and at the 
University of Edinburgh he was not known as a scholar, though 
he was popular with his companions, especially as a story- 
teller. In obedience to his father's wishes he took up law 
and toiled unenthusiastically at this profession for some years. 
Some trips of his into the Scotch Highlands led him to make 
a collection of old ballads, published in Border Minstrelsy 
(1802). From this time on he devoted himself exclusively to 
literature. His first important original poem, The Lay of the 
Last Minstrel, came out in 1805, followed by Marmion (1808), 
The Lady of the Lake (1810), The Vision of Don Roderick 
(1811), and others of less merit. He had about this time be- 
come a silent partner in the printing firm of Ballantyne Brothers, 
contributing largely to the capital. In 1812 he purchased a 
farm on the river Tw^eed and built the famous house Abbots- 
ford. The estate was an unprofitable investment, as it led 
him into extravagances apparently justified by an increasing 
income but really based on a false optimism. 

In 1814 Scott wrote Waverley, the first of the long series of 
novels which made him distinguished as a prose-writer. From 
this time on his major work was in prose. He recognized 
without envy that Byron was beating him on his own ground 
in poetry, and accordingly changed to a field where success 
was surer. He was apparently prospering financially when, in 
1827, the firm of which he was a member went into bankruptcy, 
largely because of poor business management, and he was left 
shouldered with a debt of about $600,000. Undaunted he set 
to work at the age of fifty-five to satisfy his creditors, and 
book after book poured from his pen until in four years he had 
paid off S270,000. The effort, however, was too much for his 
health; he broke down, and, after a short visit to Italy, died 
at Abbotsford in 1832. 

Scott's character was almost wholly admirable. He was 



248 NOTES 

manly, courageous, faithful, and generous. Always popular, 
he was a la\ish entertainer in his prosperous days. He did 
his work cheerfully and bore up without complaint against 
misfortune and suffering such as few men are called upon to 
endure. 

As a poet he was fluent, \agorous, and spirited, but usually 
paid little attention to form and polish. He made no effort 
to become a careful writer; but this is sometimes compen- 
sated for b}'" a certain robustness which most of his verses 
possess. His poetical genius is best shown in narrative, where 
the movement is rapid and the action full of exciting moments. 
If his poems lack intense passion and deep meditation, they 
are at least picturesque and interesting. 

J. G. Lockhart, Scott's son-in-law, is the author of the most 
complete biography. A good shorter life is that by R. H. 
Hutton in the English Men of Letters Series. 

LocHiNVAR (Page 19) 
Published first in Marmion (1808) as '' Lady Heron's Song.'' 

2. Border; the countr}^ on the border between England 
and Scotland, a region of warfare and strife for many centuries. 

8. The Esk River is in southwest Scotland, and flows into 
Sol way Firth. 

32. Galliard; a lively dance of the period. 

41. Scaur; a steep bank of rock. 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

William Wordsworth was born in 1770 at Cockermouth on 
the borders of the beautiful English lake country. During a 
boyhood spent largely out of doors, rowing, walking, and 
skating, he imbibed a love for nature which had a broader 



NOTES 249 

manifestation in his later life and poetry. After a short period 
at Hawkshead School, he entered St. John's College, Cambridge, 
where he took a degree in 1791. He then resided for a time 
in France; but was driven from there in 1793 by the Reign of 
Terror, and passed a few years in a rather idle way in the 
vicinity of London. His real poetic awakening came in 1797, 
when he and Coleridge lived near each other at Alfoxden 
among the Quantock Hills in Somerset. Here, in 1798, the 
two young men published Lyrical Ballads, a collection of poems 
written for the most part by Wordsworth, though Coleridge con- 
tributed The Rime of the Ancient Mariner and a few others. 
This book, especially in its treatment of nature, was a re- 
action against the stilted formalism which had characterized 
much of the English poetry of the eighteenth century, and as 
such it was the real stimulus for the revival of Romanticism 
which followed its appearance. After a year in Germany with 
his sister Dorothy, Wordsworth returned to the lake region 
now associated with his name, living at Grasmere until 1813, 
and after that at Rydal Mount. He married his cousin, Mary 
Hutchinson, in 1802. Among his later important works were 
The Prelude (1805), The Excursion (1814), and many shorter 
poems and sonnets. He was made poet-laureate in 1843, 
and died seven years after in 1850. 

Wordsworth, though a radical in his youth, became more 
conservative in later years. He was a man of quiet tastes, 
and deliberately chose to live v/here he could be among simple 
people. As a poet, he was first of all an interpreter of nature, 
endowed with extraordinary keenness of observation and de- 
lighting in all her phases. In humanity, too, he had a sym- 
pathetic interest, especially in the everyday emotions and 
occupations of the plain men and women around him. And 
influencing his attitude toward both nature and humanity 
was a sort of religious mysticism which conceived the spirit of 



250 NOTES 

God as permeating all things, flowers and trees as well as the 
human heart. 

Michael (Page 21) 

Written in 1800 and published in the same year. Words- 
worth's own note on the poem is as follows: '' Written at 
Town-end, Grasmere, about the same time as ' The Brothers/ 
The Sheepfold. on which so much of the poem turns, remains, 
or rather the ruins of it. The character and circumstances of 
Luke were taken from a family to whom had belonged, many 
years before, the house we lived in at Town-end, along with 
some fields and woodlands on the eastern shore of Grasmere. 
The name of the Evening Star was not in fact given to this 
house, but to another on the same side of the valley, more to 
the north.'' 

2. Greenhead Ghyll: a ravine near Grasmere. 
134. Easedale; a small lake near Grasmere. 

Lucy Gray: or. Solitude (Page 36) 

Written in 1799 and published first in 1800. Wordsworth 
saj^s of it: '' Written at Goslar in Germany. It was founded 
on a circumstance told me by my Sister, of a little^girl, who, 
not far from Halifax, in Yorkshire, was bewildered in a snow- 
storm. Her footsteps were traced by her parents to the middle 
of the lock of a canal, and no other vestige of her, backward 
or forward, could be traced. The bod3^ however, was found 
in the canal." 

THOMAS CAMPBELL 

Thomas Campbell was born at Glasgow, Scotland. July 27, 
1777. He was educated at the University of Glasgow, where 
he made somewhat of a reputation as a versifier and translator. 



NOTES 251 

After some desultory attempts at tutoring, he published in 
1799, The Pleasures of Hope, a long didactic poem which 
brought him real fame and a considerable financial reward. 
Soon after he travelled on the continent, where many of his war 
ballads were written. In his later days he was a figure in 
literary circles and was given a pension by the crown. He 
died in 1844 and was buried in Westminster Abbey. 

Much of Campbell's longer poetic work is dull and unequal. 
However, in his own field of the vigorous patriotic ballad, he 
is without a rival. Saintsbury says of him, '' He holds the 
place of best singer of war in a race and language which are 
those of the best singers, and not the worst fighters, in the his- 
tory of the world.'' 

HoHENLiNDEN (Page 39) 

Written in 1800, after the author had visited the battlefield. 

In the battle of Hohenlinden (December 3, 1800), the French 
under General Moreau defeated the Austrians and compelled 
the Austrian Emperor to sue for peace. The treaty of Lune- 
ville, which followed, extended French territory to the Rhine. 

4. The Iser is a river rising in northern Switzerland and 
flowing into the Danube. 

Battle of the Baltic (Page 40) 

Written in 1809. 

The battle of the Baltic took place in the Baltic Sea before 
Copenhagen, April 2, 1801, between the English and the Danish 
fleets. England had accepted a declaration of the Armed 
Neutrality League (Russia, Denmark, and Sweden) as being 
really in the interests of her enem}^, France, and the English 
fleet under Lord Parker was sent to the Baltic. Under Lord 
Nelson, the second in command, a decisive victory was gained, 



252 NOTES 

largely through the fact that Nelson refused to obey the orders 
of his superior officer. 

67. Riou was one of Nelson's officers. 

CHARLES WOLFE 

Charles Wolfe was born at Dublin, Ireland, in 1791 and died 
at Queenstown in 1823. He graduated at Trinity College, 
Dublin, in 1814 and became curate of Donoughmore, Ireland. 
His Reynains, with a brief memoir, were published in 1825. 

His only poem of any distinction is the one here printed, 
The Burial of Sir John Moore. 

The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna (Page 43) 

First published in the Newry Telegraph, an Irish paper, in 
1817, under the initials C. W. 

Sir John Moore (1761-1809) was commander of an English 
army of twenty-four thousand men in Spain against a French 
force of eighty thousand under Soult. At the battle of Co- 
runna, January 16, 1809, the English army won a doubtful 
\ictory in which their leader was killed. After burying him 
at dead of night, the English troops embarked for their own 
country. 

Corunna is a city in northwest Spain. 

BYRON 

George Gordon, Lord Byron, was born in London, January 
22, 1788, and died at Missolonghi, April 19, 1824, at the age 
of thirty-six. Byron's father, a captain in the guards, after a 
romantic first marriage, wedded Catharine Gordon, a wealthy 
girl of Aberdeenshire, whom, after squandering her fortune, 



NOTES 253 

he deserted shortly after young Byron ^s birth. Byron's 
mother was a quick-tempered, impulsive woman, ill-fitted to 
bring up a son who had a temperament almost exactly like 
her own. Once when a companion said to Byron, '^ Your 
mother's a fool,'' the boy answered, '^ I know it." 

As a boy at school Byron formed passionate attachments, 
entered into the games he played with an unusual fierceness of 
spirit, and exhibited that sensitive pride which was the cause 
of much of his posing there and in later life. He was club- 
footed, a deformity about which he was extremely sensitive. 
Before entering Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1805, he had 
attended Harrow for five years. At Cambridge he remained 
less than three years, but in that time made some close friends 
and took an active part in all sorts of sports, especially riding 
and swimming. His vacations he spent at London or South- 
well, generally quarrelling violently with his mother. 

His first published poetry was Hours of Idleness, which 
appeared in 1807, and which was attacked by the Edinburgh 
Review so strenuously that Byron replied in 1809 with English 
Bards and Scotch Reviewers, In the same year he took his 
seat in the House of Lords, but he had no interest in politics, 
and, accordingly, left England for two years' travel on the 
continent. This tour was the occasion of the first two cantos 
of Childe Harold. This poem was received so warmly that 
Byron remarked that " he awoke one morning to find himself 
famous." From now till the separation from his wife in 1816, 
after a year of wedded life, he was the lion of British society, 
but society took sides on this family difference, and as most 
of them sympathized with Lady Byron, Byron himself left 
England. He spent some time on Lake Geneva, where the 
Castle of Chillon is situated. He then went to Italy, where, 
amid his usual life of dissipation, he became interested in the 
Italian Insurrection. Among his friends and companions in 



254 NOTES 

Italy were Shelley and Leigh Hunt. In 1823, becoming at- 
tracted by the attempts of the Greeks to overthrow Turkish 
rule, he went to Greece as a leader, but he contracted a fever 
at Missolonghi, where he died, April 19, 1824. 

As a poet Byron appeals especially to youth. His tales are 
so interesting that Scott made the remark that Byron beat 
him at his own game. Rapidity and force of movement, in- 
tensity and passion, excellent description, and a great, though 
not fine, command of poetic sound are the chief characteristics 
of his poetry. The romantic tale, Childe- Harold, and the 
satire, Don Juan, are perhaps his best-known works. 



The Prisoner of Chillon (Page 45) 

The castle of Chillon is situated near Montreux at the op- 
posite end of Lake Geneva from the city of Geneva. It is a 
large castle, built on an isolated rock twenty-two yards from 
the shore of the lake. Beneath this castle, but some nine or 
ten feet above the surface of the lake, supported by seven 
detached pillars and one semi-detached, is a vaulted chamber, 
w^hich was formerly used as a prison. Here, from 1530 to 1536, 
was imprisoned Francis Bonnivard. 

Bonnivard, the son of the Lord of Lune, was born in 1496. 
When sixteen years old, he inherited from his uncle the priory 
of St. Victor, near Geneva. Later he allied himself with this 
city against the Duke of Savoy, but was captured and impris- 
oned for two years in Grolee. In 1530 he again fell into the 
hands of the Duke of Savoy, who this time confined him for six 
years in Chillon castle. At the end of this period he was liber- 
ated by the Bernese and Genevese and returned to Geneva to 
live a brilliant but wild life until 1570. 

Byron takes no pains to stick to the facts of Bonnivard's 



NOTES 255 

imprisonment or life, or even to the facts about the prison 
itself. Notice, however, that he calls the poem '' A Fable." 

B5rron and Shelley made a visit to Chillon in June, 1816, 
and while delayed for two days at Ouchy, a village on Lake 
Geneva, B\a'on wrote this poem. 

Byron and Shelley belonged to a group of poets who were 
influenced by the French Revolution. Byron's love of freedom 
was so great that he aided Italy, and finally died from a fever 
contracted at Missolonghi, where he had gone to aid the Greek 
revolutionists. The following sonnet, which was prefixed to 
The Prisoner of Chillon, gives an idea of Byron's love of liberty. 

SoxxET OF Chillon 

"Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind ! 

Brightest in dungeons, Liberty ! thou art. 

For there thy habitation is the heart — 
The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; 
And when thy sons to fetters are consigned — 

To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, 

Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 
And Freedom's fame finds wings on eveYj wind. 

" Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place, 

And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod, 

Until his very steps have left a trace 

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 

Bj^ Bonnivard ! — May none those marks efface! 
For they appeal from tyranny to God." 

4. Sudden fears. Marie Antoinette's hair has been said to 
have turned gray on the return from Varennes to Paris. It 
certainl}^ turned gray very quickly during the anxiety of the 
Revolution. 

22. Sealed. How? 

35. Marsh's meteor lamp; will o^ the wisp. 



256 NOTES 

3S. Cankering thing. What does canker do? 

57. The elements are fire, air, earth, and water. 

82. Polar day. What is the length of the day near the poles? 

100. Sooth: truth. 

107. Lake Leman; another name for Lake Geneva. 

133. The moat was the ditch which surrounded a castle. 
The moat of Chillon Castle, however, was the part of the lake 
which separated the rock from the shore. 

179. Rushing forth in blood. BjTon is said to have been 
fond of the symptoms of violent death. He, a year after writing 
this poem, saw three robbers guUlotined, taking careful notice 
of his ov.n and their actions. Goethe, the German poet, even 
thought that B\Ton must have committed murder, he seemed 
so interested in sudden death. 

230. Selfish death; suicide. 

237. Wist; the imperfect tense of wit, to he aware of, to knaw. 

288. Brother's. It was a Mohammedan belief that the souls 
of the blessed inhabited green birds in paradise. 

294. Solitary cloud. This line is one of several very close 
similarities in this poem to Wordsworth; cf.: — 

" I wandered lonely as a cloud 
That floats on high o'er vales and hills." 

341. The little isle referred to is He de Peilz. an islet on 
which a century ago were planted three elms. 

392. With a sigh. It is not unheard of for men long im- 
prisoned to lose all desire for freedom, and even to return to 
their place of confinement after being set free. 

Mazeppa (Page 58) 

The following extract from Voltaire's History of Charles XII 
was prefixed to the first edition of Mazeppa as the " Adver- 
tisement " : — 



NOTES 257 

'^ The man who then filled this position [Hetman of Ukraine] 
was a Polish gentleman, named Mazeppa, who had been born 
in the Palatinate of Podolia. He had been brought up as a 
page to John Casimir, at whose court he had taken on some 
of the color of learning. An intrigue which he had in his youth 
with the wife of a Polish gentleman having been discovered, 
the husband had him bound, all naked, upon a wild horse, and 
in this condition let go. The horse, which was from the country 
of Ukraine, returned and brought there Mazeppa, half-dead 
with weariness and hunger. Some peasants helped him: he 
remained a long time among them and distinguished himself 
in several expeditions against the Tartars. The superiority 
of his wisdom brought him great consideration among the 
Cossacks. His reputation increased day by day, until the 
Czar was obliged to make him Prince of Ukraine.'^ 

The real life of Mazeppa was as follows: Ivan Stepdnovitch 
Mazeppa was born in 1645, of Cossack origin and of the lesser 
nobility of Volhynia. When fifteen years old, he became the 
page to John Casimir V of Poland, and, while holding this office, 
learned Latin and much about statesmanship. Later, however, 
being banished on account of a quarrel, he returned home to 
his mother in Volhynia. While here, to pass the time, he fell 
in love with the wife of a neighbor, Lord Falbouski. This 
lord, or pane, discovering his wife and her lover, caused Ma- 
zeppa to be stripped and bound to his own horse. The horse, 
enraged by lashes and pistol shots and then let loose, ran im- 
mediately to Mazeppa's own courtyard. 

Mazeppa, later, after holding various secretaryships, was 
made hetman, or prince, over all of Ukraine, and for nearly 
twenty years he was the ally of Peter the Great. Afterwards, 
however, he offered his services to Stanislaus of Poland, and 
finally to Charles XII of Sweden. '' Pultowa's Day," July 8, 
1709^ when Charles was defeated by the Russians and put to 

3 



258 NOTES 

flight, was the last of Mazeppa's power. He fled with Charles 
across the river Borysthenes and received protection from the 
Turks. He died a year later at Varnitza on the Dneister, just 
in time to escape being delivered over to Peter. 

1. Pultowa. See Introductory Note. 

9. Day were dark and drear; Napoleon's famous defeat, 
and retreat from Moscow, October, 1815. 

15. Die. What is the plural? 

23. Gieta was a colonel in the king of Sweden's army. 

51. Levels man and brute. Burke says in his Speech on 
Conciliation with America, '^ Public calamity is a mighty 
leveller." 

56. Hetman. See Introductory Note. Mazeppa was sixty- 
four years old. 

104. Bucephalus; the horse of Alexander the Great. Alex- 
ander, when a boy, was the first to tame this horse, thereby, 
in fulfilment of the oracle, proving his right to the throne. 

105. Scythia was a country, north and northeast of the 
Black Sea, which was inhabited by nomadic people. It was 
noted for its horses. 

116. Borysthenes; another name for the Dnieper River. 
151. A Mime was a sort of farce, travestying real persons 
or events. 

154. Thyrsis was one of the names commonly used for shep- 
herds in the Greek and Latin pastoral poets, as Theocritus, 
Bion, Virgil. The names were conventionally used by modern 
imitators of these poets. 

155. Palatine (from palatium, meaning palace) was a name 
given to a count, or ruler of a district, who had almost regal 
power. 

237. Overwrought; the past participle of overwork. Cf. 
wJieelwright, wainwright, etc. 



NOTES 269 

329. Cap-a-pie; from head to foot. 

349. 'Scutcheon, or escutcheon, is the shield-shaped surface 
upon which the armorial bearings are charged. 

437. Spahi's; the name of a Turkish corps of irregular 
cavalry. 

575. Uncouth; literally, unknown. 

618. Ignis-fatuus; wiil-o-the-wisp, Jack-o'-lantern. 

664. Werst; a Russian measure equal to about two- thirds 
of a mile. 

The Destruction of Sennacherib (Page 86) 

Read 2 Chronicles, chapter 32, and Isaiah, chapters 36 
and 37. 

JOHN KEATS 

John Keats was born October, 1795, and died on the 23d of 
February, 1821. He was the son of a livery-stable keeper, who 
had married his former proprietor's daughter. The parents 
had wished to educate Keats and his two brothers, but before 
Keats was fifteen, both his father and mother had died. He was 
then apprenticed to a surgeon at Edmonton, under whom he 
remained four years, and then went up to London to complete 
his training for a medical degree. This he received in due time 
and began to practise, but he found literature so much more 
attractive that, in about a year, he gave up his attempt to 
practise medicine. At about this time he became acquainted 
with Leigh Hunt, who had a good deal of influence upon Keats's 
literary beginnings. His first volume of poetry, which appeared 
in 1817, shows this influence strongly. A year later his En- 
dymion was published and was so severely criticised by Black- 
wood's and especially by the Quarterly that Keats took it much 
to heart; some have supposed that this attack very much has- 



260 NOTES 

tened his death. His brother George had moved to America 
in 1818, and his brother Tom was now dying with consumption. 
Keats nursed him faithfully until his death. Immediately 
after this sorrow, he fell deeply in love, but his health was so 
greatly impaired that he found it necessary, in 1820, to take a 
trip to Italy. He did not grow stronger, however, but died 
at Rome on the 23d of February, 1821. 

Keats's poetry is noted especially for its sensuous beauty, 
its descriptions, and its remarkable reproduction of the Greek 
and romantic spirits. 



The Eve of St. Agnes (Page 88) 

Around St. Agnes' Eve, which is the night before the Feast 
of St. Agnes on January 21, and which corresponds to the 
Scotch '' Hallowe'en," there grew up the superstition that a 
maiden could, by observing certain traditional precautions, 
have in her sleep a vision of her future husband. Perhaps the 
most common way to obtain this vision was for the girl to go to 
sleep on her back with her hands behind her head ; then at 
midnight she would dream that her lover came and kissed her. 
This is the superstition that Keats has made use of in The Eve 
of St. Agnes. 

St. Agnes was a Roman girl, who at thirteen was loved by 
the son of a Roman prefect, but, however, being like her parents 
a Christian and having vowed virginity, she told her lover 
that she was already betrothed. The youth, thinking he had 
some earthly rival, as a result fell so very sick that his father 
tried to intercede with the girl's parents. When he found these 
people were Christians, he tried to compel Agnes to become a 
vestal virgin or marry his son. Agnes, because she refused 
to do either of these things, was dragged to the altar, but be- 



NOTES 261 

cause here, by her prayers, she restored to her lover the sight 
which he had lost, she was set free by the Prefect. The people, 
however, tried to burn her, but were themselves consumed in 
the fire, until finally one of their number slew her with his 
sword. A few days after her death, her parents had a vision of 
her, surrounded by angels and accompanied by a lamb (Agnus 
Dei). After her canonization it was customary to sacrifice on 
St. Agnes' Day, during the singing, two lambs whose w^ool the 
next day was woven by the nuns into pallia for the archbishops. 
(Cf. I. 115, 117.) Cf. Agnus and Agnes. 

5. Beadsman. Bead originally meant prayer; hence " to 
say one's beads." A beadsman was an inmate of an almshouse 
who was bound to pray for the founders of the house. In 
Shakespeare the word is used to denote one who prays for 
another. 

31. Snarling. Does this verse resemble the sound de- 
scribed? What is the name of this figure? 

40. New-stuffed. What does this mean here? 

46. St. Agnes' Eve. See Introductory Note. 

70. Amort ( (Fr. a la mart); lifeless, spiritless. 

71. Lambs. See Introductory Note. 

75. Porph}^:© ( (Gr. porp/it/ro = a purple fish, purple). Why 
did Keats choose this name instead of Lionel, as he first in- 
tended ? 

77. Buttressed means supported, but here it must mean 
protected from; i.e. Porphyro was in the shadow of the but- 
tress. 

81. Sooth; truth. Cf. soothsayer. 

86. Hyena. Find out the characteristics of this animal, 
and see what the force of the epithet is here. 

90. Beldame ((bel + dame) originally meant a fair lady, 
then grandmother and, in general, old woman or hag. 



262 NOTES 

105. Gossip originally meant a sponsor at baptism {God- 
sih), then a boon companion, and finally a tattler. 

115. Holy loom. See Introductory Note. 

120. Witch's sieve. This refers to the superstition that 
witches could hold water in sieves and could sail in them. 
Cf. Macbeth, I. 3. 1, 8: — 

'^ But in a sieve I'll thither sail, 
And, like a rat without a tail, 
I'll do, I'll do, and I'll do." 

126. Mickle; much. 

135. Lap. '' Madeline is asleep in her bed; but she is also 
asleep in accordance with the legends of the season; and there- 
fore the bed becomes their lap as well as sleep's. '^ 

— Leigh Hunt. 

138. How make purple riot in his heart? 

171. Merlin was the sorcerer in Arthur's court. Vivien 
succeeded in getting from him a secret by which she shut him 
up in a hollow tree. See Tennyson's Merlin and Vivien. Malory 
has another version of the story. 

173. Gates; provisions, — especially rich, luxurious provi- 
sions. Cf. cater, caterer. 

174. Tambour frame. Tambour is a kind of drum; cf. 
tarnhourine. A tambour frame is a round frame for holding 
material which is to be embroidered. 

208. Casement high. . . . On these next three stanzas 
Keats spent much time. They are considered beautiful de- 
scription. Why? 

214. Heraldries are coats of arms. 

215. Emblazonings; colored heraldries. 

218. Gules; the tincture red. In a shield without color 
gules is indicated by vertical parallel lines. 



NOTES 263 

241. Missal; a mass book for the year. What is the meaning 
of this Hne? Paynims; pagans. 

257. Morphean. Morpheus was the god of sleep. 

262. Azure-lidded sleep. Note the different senses ap- 
pealed to in these next stanzas. Keats is called one of our 
most sensuous poets. 

266. Soother; used here for more soothing. 

267. What are lucent syrops? Note derivation. 
277. Eremite; hermit. 

292. Keats wrote a poem about this time called La Belle 
Dame sans Merci. 

346. Wassailers was a term originally used for men drinking 
each other's health with the words wes hdl, be whole. 

375. Angela. Have the deaths of Angela and the Beads- 
man been foretold? 

ALFRED TENNYSON 

Alfred Tennyson was born in Somersby, Lincolnshire, 
England, on August 6, 1809, and died at Aldworth in Surrey 
in 1892. He was the third of twelve brothers and sisters, 
several of whom later showed evidences of genius. As early 
as 1827 he and his brother Charles published Poems by Two 
Brothers, for which they received ten pounds. At Trinity 
College, Cambridge, which he entered in 1828, he won the 
chancellor's gold medal for a prize poem Timhuctoo. On 
the death of his father in 1831 he left Cambridge without a 
degree. Before this in 1830 he had published Poems, chiefly 
Lyrical, and two years later in 1832 a new volume appeared 
which was severely criticised, though it contained much excel- 
lent work. The death of his close friend, Arthur Henry Hallam, 
in 1833 was a terrible blow to Tennyson and one from which 
it took him many years to recover. It was, however, the 
inspiration for his elegy In Memoriam, written for the most 



264 NOTES 

part during the period when the loss was felt most keenly. 
For some time after, Tennyson lived quietly, gaining in power 
and expression, and busy training himself for the future. The 
product of this seclusion came in two volumes of poetry, printed 
in 1842, which were enthusiastically greeted. In 1845 Words- 
worth wrote, '' Tennyson is decidedly the first of our living 
poets." The Princess; A Medley, appeared in 1847, and three 
years later he gave to the world the completed In Memoriam. 
This same year (1850) is also notable for his marriage with Miss 
Emily Sellwood and his appointment as poet-laureate in place 
of Wordsworth, who had just died. 

From this time on his place in literature was secured, and he 
lived a happy life, making occasional short trips in England 
and on the continent, but remaining for the most part quietly 
at his estate on the Isle of Wight. Among his later works 
are Maud (1855), Enoch Arden (1864), Idylls of the King 
(finished 1872), a group of Ballads, and Other Poems (1880), 
and several dramas. He accepted a peerage in 1883. Nine 
years later he died and was buried in Westminster Abbey. 

Tennyson, in the range and scope of his work, in the variety 
of his interests, and in the versatility of his art, is the most rep- 
resentative poet of the nineteenth century. He tried many 
kinds of poetry and met with some success in all. He learned 
versification as Stevenson did his prose style, by long-continued 
study and practice, with the result that he became eventually 
a supreme literary artist, a master of melody in words. His 
diction is admirably precise and exact, and he is easy to read and 
understand. While he is rarely profound or searching, like 
Browning, neither is he overintellectual; but he embeds sane 
and safe thought in a mould of beauty. He was a national 
poet in his patriotism and fondness for English scenery. Finally 
he was an apostle of religious optimism, ready to combat the 
morbid beliefs which were disturbing contemporary philosophy. 



NOTES 265 

Dora (Page 103) 

Published in 1842. 

The clearness and simplicity of this exquisite pastoral make 
any explanatory notes superfluous. Regarding it, Words- 
worth once said to Tennyson, '^ I have been endeavoring all 
my life to write a pastoral like your Dora and have not yet 
succeeded. '^ 

(Enone (Page 108) 

Most of this poem was written in 1830 while Tennyson 
was travelling in the Pjrrenees Mountains with his friend, 
Arthur Henry Hallam. The descriptions of scenery belong, 
therefore, to that district, and not to the vicinity of ancient 
Troy. Mnone was first published in 1832, but was afterward 
frequently revised; it appears here in the final form approved 
by Tennyson himself. 

1. Ida is a mountain in northwest Asia Minor near the site 
of Troy. 

2. Ionian; Grecian. 

10. Gar gar us is the highest peak of Mount Ida. 

13. Troas is the district in northwest Asia Minor in which 
was located the city of Troy. Ilion was the Greek name for 
Troy. 

16. Paris was the son of Priam, king of Troy, and his wife 
Hecuba. 

37. River-God; Cebren, the god of a small river near Troas. 

40. Rose slowly, i^ccording to tradition, Neptune, the god 
of the sea, was the founder of Troy, but was assisted by Apollo, 
who raised the walls to the music of his IjTe. 

51. Simois; a river haidng its source in Mount Ida. 

65. Hesperian gold. The apples of Hesperides were made of 
pure gold. They were given to Here as a wedding present, 



266 NOTES 

and thereafter guarded night and day by a dragon. Hercules 
finally secured three of them through a stratagem. 

66. Ambrosially. Ambrosia was the food of the gods. 

72. Oread. The Oreads were nymphs who were supposed to 
guide travellers through dangerous places on the mountains. 

79. Peleus; a king of Phitia who married Thetis, a sea- 
nymph. To the wedding feast all the immortals were invited 
except Eris, goddess of discord. In revenge, she cast a 
golden apple on the banquet table before the gods and god- 
desses, with an inscription awarding it to the most beautiful 
among them. The strife which followed resulted in the choos- 
ing of Paris as judge in the matter. 

81. Iris was the messenger and attendant of Juno. She 
frequently appeared in the form of a rainbow. 

83. Here (Roman Juno) was the wife and sister of Zeus 
(Roman Jupiter), and therefore Queen of Heaven. 

84. Pallas (Roman Minerva) was the goddess of wisdom. 
Aphrodite (Roman Venus) was the goddess of beauty and love. 

95. Amaracus; a fragrant flower. Asphodel; supposed to 
have been a variety of Narcissus. 

102. The peacock was a bird sacred to Here. 
151. Guerdon; reward. 

170. Idalian; so-called from Idalium, a town in Cyprus 
sacred to Aphrodite. 

171. Paphian; a reference to Paphos in Cyprus where 
Aphrodite first set foot after her birth from sea foam. 

195. Pard; leopard. 

220. The Abominable; Eris, the goddess already referred to. 

257. The Greek woman; Helen, wife of Menelaus, king of 
Sparta. She was the wife promised to Paris by Aphrodite as 
his reward for his decision. Paris stole her from her husband 
through the direction of Aphrodite, and carried her back to 
Troy. As' a result of this act, the Greeks, under Menelaus and 



NOTES 267 

his brother Agamemnon, joined in an attack on Troy which 
ended, after ten years, in the capture of that city. In the 
course of the siege Paris was killed. 

259. Cassandra; the daughter of Priam, and hence the 
sister of Paris. She was condemned by Apollo to utter prophe- 
sies which, though true, would never be believed. 

The conclusion of the story of (Enone and Paris may be 
read in Tennyson's own Death of (Enone or in William Morris's 
Death of Paris. 

Enoch Arden (Page 117) 

This poem was written in 1862, its actual composition tak- 
ing only two weeks, although the poet had been considering 
the theme for some time. It was first printed in 1864 and 
became popular at once, sixty thousand copies being sold in a 
very short period. 

7. Danish barrows are burial mounds supposed to have 
been left by the early Danish invaders of England. 

18. The fluke is the part of the anchor which fastens in 
the ground. 

36. Wife to both. This line is a prophecy of future events 
in the stor3\ 

94. Osier. The reference is to baskets made of osier, a kind 
of willow. 

98. The lion-whelp was evidently a heraldic device over 
the gateway to the hall. 

99. Peacock-yewtree; a yewtree cut, after the fashion of 
the old landscape gardeners, into the shape of a peacock. 

213. Look on yours. This is another prophetic line. 

326. Garth; a yard or garden. 

337. Conies; rabbits. 

370. Just . . . begun; notice here the repetition of line 67: 



268 NOTES 

each of the two lines introduces a crisis in the life of Philip. 
Several other such repetitions may be found in the poem. 

494. Under the palm-tree; found in Judges iv. 5. 

525. The Bay of Biscay is off the west coast of France and 
north of Spain. 

527. Smnmer of the world; the equator. 

563. Stem; the trunk of a tree. 

573. Convolvuluses; plants with twining stems. 

575. The broad belt of the world. The ancients considered 
the ocean to be a body of water completely surrounding the 
land. 

633. This description may be compared with that of Ben 
Gunn in Stevenson's Treasure Island. 

671. A holt is a piece of woodland. A tilth is a name for 
land which is tilled. 

728. Latest; last. 

733. Shingle; coarse gravel or small stones. 

747. Creasy; full of creases. 

The Revenge (Page 146) 

Published first in the Nineteenth Century, March, 1878. 
Reprinted in Ballads, and other Poems, 1880. 

The Revenge deals with an incident of the war between 
England and Spain during the latter half of the sixteenth cen- 
tury. Sir Richard Grenville, the hero, came from a long line 
of fighters and was one of the most famous naval commanders 
of the period. He had led, in 1585, the first English colony 
to Virginia, and had been in charge of the Devon coast defence 
at the time of the Armada (1588) when that great Spanish 
fleet, organized to deal a crushing blow to England, was de- 
feated and almost entirely destroyed by English ships and 
seamen under Lord Howard and Sir Francis Drake. In 1591 
he was given command of the Revenge, a second-rate ship of five 



NOTES 269 

hundred tons' burden and carrying a crew of two hundred and 
fifty men, and sent to the Azores to intercept a Spanish treasure 
fleet. While there, he was cut off from his own squadron and 
left with two alternatives : to turn his back on the enemy, or to 
sail through the fifty- three Spanish vessels opposed to him. 
He refused to retreat, and the terrible battle described in the 
ballad was the result. 

Grenville was a somewhat haughty and tyrannical leader, 
though noble-minded, loyal, and patriotic. In Charles Kings- 
ley's Westward Ho! which gives a vivid portrayal of English 
national feeling and character during these stirring times, he 
is made to take an important part, and is idealized as '' a truly 
heroic personage — a steadfast. God-fearing, chivalrous man, 
conscious (as far as a soul so healthy could be conscious) of 
the pride of beauty, and strength, and valour, and wisdom.'' 
Froude calls him '' a goodly and gallant gentleman.'' Per- 
haps the best comment on him is found in his own dying words : 
^^ Here die I, Richard Grenville, with a joyful and quiet mind: 
for that I have ended my life as true soldier ought to do, that 
liath fought for his country. Queen, religion, and honour. 
Whereby my soul most joyfully departeth out of this body, 
and shall always leave behind it an everlasting fame of a 
valiant and true soldier; that hath done his dutie as he was 
bound to do." 

The Revenge is styled by Stevenson (the English Admirals) 
" one of the noblest ballads in the English language." In- 
deed, in vigor of spirit, and in patriotic feeling, there are few 
poems which surpass it. 

1. The Azores (here pronounced A-zo-res) are a group of 
islands in the North Atlantic Ocean. The island of Flores 
(pronounced Flo -res) is the most westerly of the group. 

4. Lord Thomas Howard was admiral of the fleet to which 
the Revenge belonged. 



270 NOTES 

12. The Inquisition was a system of tribunals formed in the 
thirteenth century by the Roman Cathohc Church to investi- 
gate and punish cases of religious unbelief. In the sixteenth 
century the Inquisition became infamous in Spain because of 
the cruelty of its persecutions, many people suffering terrible 
tortures and dying the most painful deaths, through its in- 
strumentality. 

17. Bideford in Devon was the birthplace of Sir Richard 
Grenville. In the sixteenth century it was one of England's 
chief seaports and sent seven vessels to fight the Armada. It 
is described in the opening chapter of Westward Ho! 

21. The thumbscrew was an instrument of torture employed 
by the Inquisition. Victims of the Inquisition were some- 
times tied to a stake and burned alive. 

30. Seville is a city in southwestern Spain. It is here to 
be pronounced with the accent on the first syllable. 

31. Don; a Spanish title of rank, here used to designate 
any Spaniard. 

46. Galleon; a name applied to sailing vessels of the fifteenth 
and sixteenth centuries. 

ROBERT BROWNING 

Robert Browning was born at Camberwell, May 7, 1812, 
and died at Venice, December 12, 1889. Browning's father, as 
his grandfather had been, was employed in the Bank of Eng- 
land. Mr. Browning, who was an indulgent father, decided 
that his son's education should be under private tutors. This 
lack of being educated with other boys is sometimes supposed 
to have been one of the causes why Browning found difficulty 
in expressing his thoughts clearly to other people. It was 
at first planned that Browning should become a lawyer, but 
as he had no taste for this, his father agreed to allow his 



NOTES 271 

son to adopt literature as a profession. When Browning 
had made his choice, he read Johnson's Dictionary for 
preparation. Pauline, his first pubhshed poem, attracted 
almost no attention, but Browning kept on writing, regardless 
of inattention. The actor, Macready, with whom he became 
friendly, turned Browning's attention to the writing of plays, 
but he was never successful as a writer for the stage. On his 
return from his second visit to Italy, in 1844, he read Miss 
Elizabeth Barrett's Lady Geraldine's Courtship and expressed 
so much appreciation of this poem that, on the suggestion of 
a common friend, he wrote to tell Miss Barrett how much he 
liked her work. This was the beginning of one of the famous 
literary love affairs of the world. Although Miss Barrett was 
several years older than Browning and a great invalid, they 
were married, against family opposition, in 1846, and went 
immediately to Italy. Mrs. Browning's health was now 
much improved, and she lived till 1861. On her death, 
Browning, greatly overcome, returned to England. Gradually 
he went more and more into society, and as his popularity 
as a poet increased, he became a well-known figure in public. 
He continued writing throughout his life. He died at his son's 
house in Venice in 1889. 

How THEY BROUGHT THE GoOD NeWS FROM GhENT TO 

Aix (Page 154) 

Browning wrote concerning this poem: " There is no sort 
of historical foundation about Good News from Ghent. I 
wrote it under the bulwark of a vessel off the African coast, 
after I had been at sea long enough to appreciate even the 
fancy of a gallop on the back of a certain good horse ' York ' 
then in my stable at home. It was written in pencil on the 
fly-leaf of Bartoli's Simboli, I remember." Such an incident 



272 NOTES 

might, of course, have happened at the 'Tacification of Ghent," 
a treaty of union between Holland, Zealand, and southern 
Netherlands under William of Orange, against Philip II of 
Spain. The distance between Ghent and Aix as mapped out 
in this poem is something more than ninety miles. Do you 
think a horse could gallop that distance ? Notice that the 
verse gives the effect of galloping. 

10. Pique; seems to be the pommel. 

14 ff. Lokeren, Boom, Diiffeld, Mecheln, Aerschot, Hasselt, 
Looz, Tongres, Dalhem; towns varying from seven to twenty- 
five miles apart on the route taken from Ghent to Aix. 

46. Save Aix. Notice that this is the first we know of the 
purpose of this ride. Is this an advantage or a disadvantage? 

Incident of the French Camp (Page 156) 

Ratisbon (German Regensburg), which has been besieged 
seventeen times since the eighteenth century, was stormed by 
Napoleon, May, 1809, during his Austrian campaign. Mrs. 
Sutherland Orr, the biographer of Browning, says this inci- 
dent actually happened, except that the hero was a man and 
not a boy. 

5. Neck out -thrust. Notice how Browning gives the well- 
known attitude of Napoleon. 

9. Mused. What effect has this supposed soliloquy of 
Napoleon? 

11. Lannes; a general of Napoleon's, and the Duke of 
Montebello. 

29. Flag-bird. What bird was on Napoleon's flag? 

The Pied Piper of Hamelin (Page 158) 

There are many versions of this story which Browning 
might have used. He is said to have used directly the ac- 



NOTES 273 

count in The Wonders of the Little World; or a General His- 
tory of Man, written by Nathaniel Wanley and published in 
1678. This poem, however, from whatever source the story 
was taken, was deservedly popular long before Browning him- 
self was. It was written to amuse, during a sickness, the son 
of William Macready, the most prominent English actor of 
his time and a close friend of Browning's. 

1. Hamelin; a town near Hanover, the capital of the 
province of Brunswick, Prussia. 

37. Guilder; a Dutch coin worth about forty cents. 

68. Trump of Doom. The Archangel Gabriel was to blow 
his trumpet to summon the dead on the Day of Judgment. 

79. Pied Piper. Pied means variegated like a magpie. Cf. 
'piebald. 

89. Cham. The Great Cham, or Khan, was the ruler of 
Tartary. Marco Polo, the Venetian traveller, gives an account 
of him. Dr. Johnson was called the Great Cham of literature. 

91. Nizam; a native ruler of Hyderabad, India. 

123, 126. Julius Caesar and his Commentary. Julius 
Csesar, the great Roman general and dictator, who wrote his 
Commentaries on his wars in Gaul and Britain. 

169. Poke; pocket. 

182. Stiver; a small Dutch coin. 

188. Piebald. Cf. ^ied, line 79. 

260. Needle's eye. Cf. Matthew xix. 24; Mark x. 25; 
Luke xviii. 25. 

Herve Riel (Page 168) 

1. Rogue. Cape La Hogue, on the east side of the same 
peninsula as Cape La Hague, was the scene, in 1692, of the 
defeat of the French by the united English and Dutch fleets. 

5. Saint Malo on the Ranee; a town on a small island 

T 



274 NOTES 

near the shore of France. The entrance to its fine harbor is 
very narrow and filled with rocks. At high tide there is forty- 
five to fifty feet of water, but at low tide this channel is dry. 

30. Plymouth Sound. Plymouth is on the southwestern 
coast of England. 

43. Pressed; forced into military or naval service. Tour- 
ville; the famous French admiral, who commanded at La 
Hogue. 

44. Croisickese; La Croisic, a small fishing village near 
the mouth of the Loire, which Browning often visited. 

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti was born in London, of Italian 
parentage, in 1828. He was educated at King's College School, 
but became very early a student of painting, in which art he 
attained considerable prominence. He was a member of the 
famous pre-Raphaelite group of artists and authors, and was 
largely responsible for the movement started by them. In 
1861 he published The Early Italian Poets, a volume of trans- 
lations; in 1870, Poems; and in 1881, Ballads and Sonnets. His 
last days were unhappy, his death in 1882 being hastened by 
overindulgence in narcotics. 

Rossetti's painting had a marked effect upon his poetry^ 
chiefly in giving him the faculty of vi\dd and ornate descrip- 
tion. Though essentially a lyric poet, he revived old English 
ballad forms with much success, and his narrative poems are 
vigorous and spirited. A good short life of Rossetti is that 
by Joseph Knight in the Great Writers Series. 

The White Ship (Page 175) 

First published in 1881 in the volume called Ballads and 
Sonnets, 



NOTES 275 

Henry the First, the third son of William the Conqueror 
had, on the death of his brother William the Second (William 
Rufus) in 1100, seized the crown of England by force from his 
other elder brother, Robert, Duke of Normandy. In 1106, 
after overthrowing Robert at Tenchebray, he became also 
Duke of Xormandy, thus uniting under himself the two nations. 
This bond of union he further strengthened by marrying 
Mathilda, an English princess. His reign, which lasted until 
1135, marked a revival in English national feeling, and a long 
step was taken toward the assimilation of the ^actorious Nor- 
mans by the people whom they had conquered. 

Henry and Mathilda had only one son, William, who was 
born in 1103. The following account of his death is given 
by William of Malmesbury (edited by J. C. Giles): " Gi\ing 
orders for returning to England, the king set sail from Barfleur 
just before twilight on the seventh before the kalends of 
December; and the breeze which filled his sails conducted 
him safely to his kingdom and extensive fortunes. But the 
young prince, Tvho was now somewhat more than seventeen 
years of age, and, by his father's indulgence, possessed every- 
thing but the name of king, commanded another vessel to be 
prepared for himself; almost all the young nobility flocking 
around him, from similarity of youthful pursuits. The sailors, 
too, immoderately filled with wine, with that seaman's hilarity 
which their cups excited, exclaimed, that those who were 
now ahead must soon be left astern; for the ship was of the 
best construction and recently fitted with new materials. 
When, therefore, it was now dark night, these imprudent 
youths, overw^helmed with liquor, launched the vessel from 
the shore. . . . The carelessness of the intoxicated crew drove 
her on a rock which rose above the waves not far from shore. . . . 
The oars, dashing, horribly crashed against the rock, and her 
battered prow hung immovably fixed. Now, too, the water 



276 NOTES 

washed some of the crew overboard, and, entering the chinks, 
drowned others; when the boat ha\ang been launched, the 
young prince was received into it, and might certainly have 
been saved by reaching the shore, had not his illegitimate 
sister, the Countess of Perche, now struggling with death in 
the larger vessel, implored her brother's assistance. Touched 
with pity, he ordered the boat to return to the ship, that he 
might rescue his sister; and thus the unhappy youth met his 
death through excess of affection; for the skiff, overcharged 
by the multitudes who leaped into her, sank, and buried all 
indiscriminately in the deep. One rustic alone escaped; who, 
floating all night upon the mast, related in the morning the 
dismal catastrophe of the tragedy.'' 

Henry never recovered from the shock of this disaster; 
and although he married again, he left at his death no direct 
male heir to the throne. 

2, Rouen; a city in northwest France on the river Seine. 

14. Clerkly Henry. In his youth Henry had been a student 
and scholar — hence his early nickname '' Henry Beau cl ere." • 

15. Ruthless; pitiless. 

17. Eyes were gone. According to a legend, which, how- 
ever, has no historical foundation, Henry had put out the eyes 
of his brother Robert. 

26. Fealty. Under the feudal system each vassal or de- 
pendant was required to take an oath of allegiance to his over- 
lord. 

35. Liege; ha\ang the right to allegiance. 

36. Father's foot. William the Conqueror, Henry's father, 
defeated Harold, the English king, at Hastings in 1066 and 
thus became master of England. 

39. Rood; the fourth part of an acre. 

45. Harfleur's harbor. Harfleur is a seaport town on the 
north bank of the outlet of the river Seine in northwest France. 



NOTES 277 

59. Hind; servant. 

98. Moil; wet. 

138. Maugre; notwithstanding. 

163. Honfleur; a town on the south bank of the outlet of 
the river Seine, opposite Harfleur. 

166. Body of Christ; the procession of the Holy Com- 
munion. 

178. Hight; called. 

198. Foredone; gone. 

211. Shrift; the confession made to a priest. 

214. Winchester; a cathedral city in southern England, 
the ancient capital of the country. 

233. Pleasaunce; pleasure. 

236. Par die; certainly or surely. It was originally an oath 
from the French jpar Dieu. 

260. Dais; the platform on which was the king's throne. 

268. Rede: story. 

WILLIAM MORRIS 

William Morris was born in 1834 in Walthamstead, Essex, 
England, and died in London in 1896. He wxnt to Exeter 
College, Oxford, in 1853, where he formed a close friendship 
with Edward Burne-Jones, the future artist. A little later he 
came under the influence of Rossetti, who induced him to 
attempt painting, an art which he followed with no great 
success. In 1858 he published The Defence of Guinevere, and 
Other Poems. This volume was followed by The Life and 
Death of Jason (1867), The Earthly Paradise (finished 1872), 
and Sigurd the Volsung (1876). In 1863 he became a manu- 
facturer of wall paper and artistic furniture, branching out 
afterwards into weaving, dyeing, and other crafts. After 1885 
he was a confirmed Socialist, speaking frequently at laborers' 



278 NOTES 

meetings and pouring forth a steady stream of leaflets and 
pamphlets in support of his radical beliefs. His death was 
probably due to overwork. 

Morris was by instinct a lover of the beautiful and har- 
monious. A fluent versifier, he delighted especially in the 
composition of narrative poetry, which he adorned with ornate 
description and superb decoration. This very richness some- 
times cloys the taste and tends to arouse a feeling of monotony. 
His longest work, The Earthly Paradise, is modelled somewhat 
on Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, and contains twenty-four stories, 
twelve mediaeval and twelve classic in origin. 

A satisfactory short life is that by Alfred Noyes in the 
English Men of Letters Series. 

Atalanta's Race (Page 187) 

Published in 1868 as the first story in the collection called 
The Earthly Paradise. The episode was a favorite with Greek 
and Latin writers, and has been used occasionally in modern 
times. The metre in this version is the antiquated Rime 
Royal. 

1. Arcadia was a province of the Grecian peninsula. 

14. Cornel is a kind of wood of great hardness used for 
making bows. 

28. King Schoenus; a Boeotian king, the son of Athamas. 
Most other versions of the story name lasius as Atalanta's 
father. 

62. Image of the sun; a statue of Phoebus Apollo, the sun- 
god. 

63. The Fleet-foot One; Mercury (Hermes), the messenger 
of the gods. 

79. Diana; the daughter of Jupiter and Latona, and the 
sister of Apollo. She was the goddess of the moon and of 



NOTES 279 

the hunt. She was also the protector of chastity. See Guer- 
ber, Myths of Greece and Rome, Chapter VI. 

80. Lists; desires. 

177. Saffron gown; the orange-yellow dress indicative of 
the bride. 

184. The sea-born one; Aphrodite (Venus). See page 266. 

206. The Dryads were wood-nymphs who were supposed 
to watch over vegetation. 

208. Adonis' bane; the wild boar. Adonis was a beautiful 
youth who was passionately loved by Venus, though he did 
not return her affection. He was mortally wounded at a 
hunt by a wild boar, and died in the arms of the goddess. 

211. Argive; Grecian. 

224. Must; the juice of the grape before fermentation. 

353. Argos; a city in Argolis, a province in the northeast 
part of the Peloponnesian peninsula in Greece. 

373. Queen Venus. It was to Venus, the goddess of love, 
that unhappy lovers were accustomed to turn for aid. 

391. Holpen; the old past participle of the word help. 

516. Damascus; the chief city of Syria. 

535. Saturn (Cronus or Time) was the father of Jupiter. 
Under his rule came the so-called Golden Age of the world. 

671. Phoenician. The Phoenicians lived on the eastern 
shore of the Mediterranean Sea, and were famous for their 
commerce and trade. 

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born in Portland, Maine, 
on February 27, 1807. He entered Bowdoin College at the 
early age of fifteen, graduating there in 1825. He then spent 
about three years abroad preparing himself for a position, as 
Professor of Modern Languages at Bowdoin, which he took 



280 NOTES 

on his return. There he remained six years, leaving in 1834 
to become a professor in Harvard College. His first book of 
poems, Voices of the Night, appeared in 1839, and two years 
later he published Ballads and other Poems. Both volumes 
were received cordially and had a wide circulation. Other 
important later works w^ere Evangeline (1847), Hiawatha 
(1855), The Courtship of Miles Standish (1858), and Tales of a 
Wayside Inn (finished 1873). In 1854 he left off teaching and 
settled down to a quiet literary life. During a trip to Europe 
in 1868 he was given honorary degrees by both Oxford and 
Cambridge. He died in Boston in 1882. It is a testimonial 
to his popularity in England that his bust was placed in the 
Poets' Corner of Westminster Abbey, the only memorial to an 
American author there. 

Longfellow was a scholarly and cultured poet, influenced 
much by foreign literatures and proficient in translation. 
His verse is rarely impassioned, but is usually simple, smooth, 
and polished. America has had no finer narrative poet; and 
it is unquestionable that this form of poetry was well adapted 
to his genius, which was fluent, but not often strongly emo- 
tional. 

The Wreck of the Hesperus (Page 211) 

Longfellow's diary for the date December 17, 1839, contains 
the following entry: ^' News of shipwrecks horrible on the 
coast. Twenty bodies washed ashore near Gloucester, one 
lashed to a piece of wreck. There is a reef called Norman's 
Woe, where many of these took place; among others the 
schooner Hesperus — I must write a ballad upon this." Two 
weeks later he wrote: '' I sat last evening till twelve o'clock 
by my fire, smoking, when suddenly it came into my mind to 
write the ' Ballad of the Schooner Hesperus,' which I accord- 
ingly did. Then I went to bed, but I could not sleep. New 



NOTES 281 

thoughts were running in my mind, and I got up to add them 
to the ballad. It was three by the clock. I then went to bed' and 
fell asleep. I feel pleased with the ballad. It hardly cost me an 
effort. It did not come into my mind by lines, but by stanzas.'' 
Published first in 1841 in Ballads and Other Poems. 

Paul Revere's Ride (Page 214) 

Published in 1863 as The Landlord's Tale in the first series 
of Tales of a Wayside Inn. 

General Gage, commander of the British forces in Boston 
and vicinity, despatched, on the night of April 18, 1775, a body 
of troops to seize stores said to be concealed at Concord. Ac- 
cording to the story, Paul Revere spread the warning through- 
out the surrounding country, and when the British arrived at 
Lexington they found a small body of militia lined up to oppose 
them. A skirmish ensued in which the first blood of the war 
was spilled, several being killed and others wounded. 

2. Paul Revere (1735-1818) was a goldsmith and engraver 
who became one of the most active of the colonial patriots. 

9. North Church. There is some dispute as to what church 
is referred to here. A tablet on the front of Christ Church, 
Salem Street, Boston, points that out as the church from which 
the lanterns were hung. Other good authorities, however, 
support the claims of the North Church, formerly standing in 
North Square, but now torn down. 

88. Medford is on the Mystic River about five miles north- 
west of Boston. 

102. Concord is about nineteen miles northwest of Boston. 

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 

John Greenleaf Whittier was born in Haverhill, Massachu- 
setts, December 17, 1807, and died at Hampton Falls, New 



282 NOTES 

Hampshire, September 1 , 1892. Whit tier's ancestors for several 
generations had been Xew England farmers on the same farm 
where the original Whittier immigrant had settled. The family 
was too poor to give Whittier an education, so that two terms at 
Haverhill Academy, the tuition for which he paid by shoemak- 
ing and school teaching, completed his school training. He early 
became interested in journalism, and was employed in editorial 
work in Boston and in Hartford. When abolition became an 
agitation, Whittier became one of the leaders. He was instru- 
mental in bringing the English Abolitionist, George Thompson, 
to America; and, while on a tour with him, was stoned and 
shot at by a mob in Concord, New Hampshire. Later, when 
he was editor of the Philadelphia Freeman, his office was burned 
by a mob. During this period he WTote many anti-slavery 
poems, such as the Ballads, Anti-Slavery Poems, etc., of 1838 
and the Voices of Freedom of 1841. In spite of his interest in 
politics, for he was twice elected to the Massachusetts legis- 
lature, Whittier led a very simple life in accordance with his 
Quaker beliefs. He never married, partly, it seems, because 
he had the care of his mother and sister Elizabeth, until the 
latter 's death in 1864. The latter part of his life he lived at 
Amesbury and Danvers, Massachusetts. 

Whittier's poetry is of three kinds. He is at times more 
thoroughly than any other writer the poet of Xew England 
country life; again he is essentially an anti-slavery poet; and, 
finally, he has written many religious poems. His best-known 
poem is Snow- Bound, which gives an admirable picture of a 
farmer's life in the hard storms of a New England winter. 

Skipper Ireson's Ride (Page 219) 

3. Apuleius's Golden Ass. Apuleius was a Roman satirist 
who lived in the first half of the second century. His most 



NOTES 283 

celebrated work was Metamorphoses, or the Golden Ass, a 
satirical romance to ridicule Christianity. 

4. Calender's horse of brass. See the story in the Arabian 
lights. 

6. Islam's prophet on Al-Borak. Mohammed was believed 
to make his journej^s between heaven and earth upon a creature, 
which some say was a camel, named Al-Borak. (The word 
signifies lightning.) 

26. Bacchus; the god of wine and revelry. A Bacchanalian 
revel was a common subject for decorations. 

30. Maenads; women who attended Bacchus, the god of 
wine, waving, as they danced and sang, the thyrsus, a wand 
entwined with i^'y and surmounted by a pine cone. 

35. Chaleur Bay; an inlet of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, 
between Gaspe and New Brunswick. It is a great resort for 
mackerel fishing. 

Barclay of Ury (Page 222) 

" Among the earliest converts to the doctrines of the Friends 
in Scotland was Barclay of Ury, an old and distinguished 
soldier, who had fought under Gustavus Adolphus, in Germany. 
As a Quaker, he became the object of persecution and abuse 
at the hands of the magistrates and populace. None bore the 
indignities of the mob with greater patience and nobleness of 
soul than this once proud gentleman and soldier. One of his 
friends, on an occasion of uncommon rudeness, lamented that 
he should be treated so harshly in his old age who had been so 
honored before. ' I find more satisfaction,' said Barclay, 
' as well as honor, in being thus insulted for my religious prin- 
ciples, than when, a few years ago, it was usual for the magis- 
trates, as I passed the city of Aberdeen, to meet me on the road 
and conduct me to public entertainment in their hall, and then 
escort me out again, to gain my favor.' " — Whittier. 



284 NOTES 

1. Aberdeen; a city in northeastern Scotland. 

2. Kirk; the Scotch word for church. 

3. Laird; lord. 

10. Carlin; Scotch word for old woman. 

35. Liitzen; a town in Saxony, province of Prussia. 

56. Tilly. ^'The barbarities of Count de Tilly after the 
siege of Magdeburg made such an impression upon our fore- 
fathers that the phrase ' like old Tilly ' is still heard sometimes 
in New England of any piece of special ferocity.'^ — Whittier. 

57. Walloon; from certain provinces of Belgium. 

81. Snooded. The snood was a band which a Scottish 
maiden wore in her hair as a sign of her maidenhood. 

99. Tolbooth; a name commonly applied to a Scottish 
prison. 

117. Fallow; ploughed but unsown land. 

Barbara Frietchie (Page 226) 

^'This poem was WTitten in strict conformity to the account 
of the incident as I had it from respectable and trustworthy 
sources. It has since been the subject of a good deal of con- 
flicting testimony, and the story was probably incorrect in 
some of its details. It is admitted by all that Barbara Frietchie 
was no myth, but a worthy and highly esteemed gentlewoman, 
intensely loyal and a hater of the Slavery Rebellion, holding 
her Union flag sacred and keeping it with her Bible; that when 
the Confederates halted before her house, and entered her door- 
yard, she denounced them in Aigorous language, shook her 
cane in their faces, and drove them out; and when General 
Burnside's troops followed close upon Jackson's, she waved her 
flag and cheered them. It is stated that May Quantrell, a 
brave and loyal lady in another part of the city, did wave her 
flag in sight of the Confederates. It is possible that there has 
been a blending of the two incidents.'' — Whittier. 



NOTES 285 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 

Oliver Wendell Holmes was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, 
in 1809. He studied at Phillips Academy, Andover, and later at 
Harvard College, where he graduated in the famous class of 1829. 
He tried law for a year, but gave this up for medicine. In 1833 
he went abroad, returning in 1835 for a medical degree at Har- 
vard. He at once began the active practice of his profession, 
but accepted a professorship at Dartmouth in 1838. He re- 
mained there only a short time, coming back again to Boston, 
where he married and resumed his work as a physician. In 
1847 he became Parkman Professor of Anatomy and Physi- 
ology at Harvard, and held this position until 1882. In 1857, 
through the influence of James Russell Lowell, he began to 
contribute regularly to the Atlantic Monthly. After 1882 he 
devoted himself almost exclusively to writing and lecturing. 
He died in 1894 in Boston, 

While Holmes is best known as the author of The Autocrat 
of the Breakfast Table and other prose works, he published 
numerous poems, most of them humorous in tone. Many of 
them were written for specific occasions, and as such are dis- 
tinguished for their wit and cleverness rather than for strong 
emotion or profound thought. 



Grandmother's Story of Bunker Hill Battle (Page 230) 

First published in 1875 at the time of the centennial of the 
battle of Bunker Hill. 

The so-called battle of Bunker Hill was the first important 
engagement of the Revohitionary War. On June 17, 1775, 
five thousand British soldiers under Howe, Clinton, and Pigott 
attacked a smaller number of Americans then stationed on 
Breed's Hill near Boston, under Colonel William Prescott. 



286 NOTES 

They were twice beaten back, but captured the hill on their 
third charge. The British loss was about twelve hundred men, 
while the Americans lost only four hundred, among them, 
however, being the patriot. Dr. Joseph Warren. 

2. Times that tried men's souls; a quotation from the 
first of a series of tracts called The Crisis by Thomas Paine, 
1776. 

3. Whig and Tory. In the Colonies the Whigs were the 
Revolutionists, while the Tories were the supporters of the 
King. The Whigs were also called Rebels. 

5. April running battle; the fight at Lexington and Con- 
cord, April 19, 1775, when the British forces were led by Lord 
Percy. 

16. Mohawks; one of the tribes of the Six Nations notori- 
ous for their cruelty in the French and Indian War. 

42. Banyan; a colored morning-gown. 

67. Dan'l Malcohn; an aUusion to an inscription on a grave- 
stone in Copp's Hill Burial Ground, Boston. The inscription 
is as follows : — 

" Here lies buried in a 
Stone Grave 10 feet deep 
Capt. Daniel Malcolm Mercht 
Who departed this Life 
October 23, 1769, 
Aged 44 years, 
A true son of Liberty, 
A Friend to the Publick, 
An Enemy to oppression, 
And one of the foremost 
In opposing the Revenue Acts 
On America/' 

147. J. S. Copley (1737-1815) was a distinguished American 
portrait-painter. 



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